Edge Of The World: Tin Soldier
by corbyinoz2
Summary: Gordon, Penny, spies, Parker, fluorescent paint, horses and strip shows... what could possibly go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

**Edge of the World: Tin Soldier**

 **Notes:**

This story follows on from Edge of the World: Here Be Dragons.

When we left them, Penny and Gordon were very much at odds. Gordon, traumatised and distressed following the events on Rona, had pushed her away in a misguided attempt to spare her from his self-perceived flawed character. Wise words from Virgil on a lonely northern beach and several weeks back on Tracy Island have helped him to see things differently, and now the situation he finds himself in is one that is not what he wants.

Of course, the idea of sitting down with her and honestly telling her what happened and how he feels now is far too sensible for him. He is A Bloke. And Gordon.

So this is the tale of What Gordon Did Next, and it's about as daft and over the top as you'd expect. The course of true love never dd run smooth, but I doubt it was ever forced over quite so many ridiculous bumps - in a speedo.

The first half of the story is Gordon's point of view. Penelope will take over after that, because really, someone has to.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

 **Chapter 1** **: Gordon Takes a Call**

 **Chapter Text**

Gordon rolled over in bed and reached for the remote that would shift the molecules in his window wall to allow daylight through, and without fail the brilliant South Pacific sunshine stage-lit his bedroom, even though it was technically only just dawn. High up in one corner the display that told him temperature, time and date appeared. It showed, as he already knew, that it was exactly seven weeks since Edinburgh, and the hospital, and his absolutely stellar decision to push away Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward in order to protect her from his wicked heart. Somehow, at that somewhat low point in his life, he had decided that this act of utterly criminal stupidity was a really good idea.

Well, it seemed so at the time. But then, he'd also thought that painting Grandma's chickens with food colouring one time was a good idea. And taken on one measure, it was – hell of a lot of fun to do, and the chickens looked awesome. Taken in terms of the consequences – yeah, not so great.

Getting out of bed at 5.45am was a no-brainer (he'd done that even before he began his gruelling swimming routine as a teen – life was too good for bed, and besides, he preferred to catnap through the afternoon on the nearest semi-flat surface), and he was diving into the ocean in less than ten minutes since his eyes opened. The pool didn't offer him enough challenge these days, and he had no fear of the creatures who might lurk in its depths. They wouldn't eat him. Hell, even sharks had standards.

Penelope. Pen. With each wave, each kick, he thought of her, a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat even if his own heart was dark and dead.

If she was the systolic blood point, the diastolic was a pulse of three words; stupid. Idiot. Moron.

He'd done it to himself. He was the one who sent her away with a kind of cruelty that lay beyond forgiveness. He was the one who hammered up the boarding that now occluded his heart, and then the one who spent long, useless hours feebly pulling at the boards with splintered fingers. It was a kind of Sisyphean punishment he'd laid upon himself, the maintaining and demolishing of the wood and nails that protected and killed him at the same time.

A sudden sound behind him made him pause in his stroke and turn back towards the island. As he watched, Thunderbird One burst up through the launch space and high into the air above him, becoming a speck in the soft lemon sky before he had time to even consider where Scott might be off to.

 _Good thing he didn't choose the pool this morning._

The mordant chuckle was the only kind of humour he allowed himself these days.

He treaded water for a minute or two, letting the ocean lift and drop him effortlessly, then kicked out into the horizontal and began the long swim home. By the time he could bring his feet to the ledge of the underwater shelf that edged the northern side of the island he could imagine someone might be cooking breakfast, and the fact that it registered as nothing more than something else to negotiate in his day was yet another sign that Gordon Tracy was as much a piece of jetsam as the empty plastic bottle that fetched up beside him.

In the kitchen it was Alan messing about with the microwave, bacon frying soggily on the stove.

"Hey, Gordo. You're up early."

"I'm up this hour every day. You're just not usually up to see me."

Not quite grouchy, but close.

"Yeah, I guess. Did you hear about Scott? There's an SOS from Antarctica, some dude hanging over an ice crevasse. He's quickest. He'll get there. Can you imagine? Hanging over a huge great ice hole and just waiting for Scott to come along and save his ass? I wonder how he managed to call. Maybe hanging on with one hand, calling it in with the other. I wonder what he was doing out there? Was a long way from the base. Maybe he got lost. Though I looked at the weather chart, it's pretty stable down there just now, pretty clear, Scott's not gonna have any trouble finding him. I'm making my special Alan's strawberry milk. You want some?"

Some days, Alan was just so – Alan.

"Nope. I'm good."

Which was a lie that reverberated on several levels, so yay him.

"Yeah, like I didn't mean to get up this morning, not this early, I mean no point, right?"

"Unless you like ocean-swimming."

"Yeah, well." Alan waved the carton of milk as though dismissing the weirdness of that concept. "But first Scott has to go galloping through the place in his size nine thousand boots, and then Penny called."

Gordon carefully lowered himself to a kitchen seat. He tried to form the word twice before any sound came out.

"Penny?"

"Yeah, she wanted to speak to you but y'know."

"I know - ?"

"You were out being Aquaman."

"She wanted to speak to – are you sure?"

"Am I sure what?"

"She – she wanted me?"

The microwave buzzed, and Alan turned to retrieve some kind of hellish froth concoction in a tall glass.

"Oh, yeah. Wanted to talk to you about something."

"What?"

Alan took a huge slurp, then made a face.

"Ugh. Too much ketchup."

"What?"

"Don't worry, a big ol' dose of caramel syrup will fix that."

"Alan!"

Alan finally seemed to register Gordon's agitation.

"Yeah?"

"What did she say?"

A teenage shrug.

"I don't know. It wasn't for me."

Gordon took a long, deep breath and fought the surging wave of fratricide that threatened to swamp him.

"Does she want me to call back?"

Alan frowned at him.

"Hey. Chill. Seriously. Why are you such a grump these days?"

"Alan!"

"Relax. It's recorded. You can go and watch it yourself."

Gordon pushed past him at a run and bounded up the stairs to the living room-cum-control area. Sure enough, there was a bright red light blinking on the console.  
Penny. Caught in that redness, his Penny. Not his anymore, but his forever nonetheless. And what she had to say – well, it could be the beginning of something. Or the end of everything.

He stood there, breathing deeply, caught in the moment when either outcome was possible. He could ignore the message, he supposed, and sustain that tiny hope for longer.  
But if he prided himself on anything, anything at all, it wasn't gold medals or deep-sea exploring or awesome jokes. It was the idea that no matter what, Gordon Cooper Tracy never ducked out on a dare.

And wasn't she just daring him. He could see her, those dark blue eyes lit with mischief, those lips curved into a teasing smile, he could hear her mellifluous English accent as she taunted him, the lightest of laughs.

"Come on, Gordon. Goodness. You're not afraid, are you?"

Not afraid, no.

Terrified.

Another breath, deep as the Marianas, and he pushed the playback button.

Gordon reached down and carefully picked up the long nail dropped there. It was particularly sharp, but his hands didn't tremble as he placed it against the board that lay across his heart and hammered it home.

Every time her name was mentioned. Every time he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, or heard a piano playing, or smelled the sweet scent of the ylang ylang trees at the bottom of the rock that made their island.

Another nail. Another piercing pain to his heart, now shored up and boarded across like the worst derelict slum, abandoned and despised.

The problem with having a secret love, he decided, is that there was no one he could talk to about it once he'd carefully and completely trashed it, all while fully cognisant of his actions.

Virgil knew. Or at least, Virgil thought he knew. Virgil called it a first love, and Gordon knew he figured it was doomed to run its course in due time. His brother was wise and insightful and caring and calm, and utterly wrong about this.

For Scott it was some kind of bewildering cosmic joke, better forgotten.

Kayo felt sorry for him, and that was the worst of all.

There was one person he thought might be of some help. He wasn't sure exactly what form that help would take; he didn't really want sympathy, or condolences, and he probably didn't even want advice. He wanted –

Ah, yes. He wanted.

What most people didn't know was that Gordon thought the world of Brains. He was a genius after all – and yeah, so was John, but Brains was a useful one. Gordon's practical mind loved the fact that Brains could see a problem and just do something about it and he seemed to summon up solutions as Gordon summoned up pranks, effortlessly and with endless variety.

So it was to Brains that he went this Thursday morning, when the call from Penelope still buzzed in his head on a self-destructive loop.

"Gordon! What brings you down here?" Brains was busy, because Brains was always busy, but he paused in doing whatever the hell it was he was doing to that defenceless Bunsen burner in order to smile up at Gordon's entrance. Given his somewhat picaresque habits, Gordon wasn't always assured of a welcome, so he took it for the win it was.

"Hey Brains. You busy?"

"I'm always busy."

And pleasantries over, Gordon plunged right in.

"Brains, I got a question. Okay, it's a hypothetical that's not really a hypothetical. Except it is for you."

"If the p-point could be reached in any time even remotely soon..."

"Yeah, well, say Moffy and you. What would you do if you acted really badly and made her upset and she broke up with you?"

It was hard to put Brains back on his heels, figuratively speaking, so if there was any scintilla of pride left in Gordon he guessed he could add another speck.

"M-my goodness!" Brains pushed his glasses up on his nose, always a bad sign. "Why on Earth would I do something so silly?"

"Because – maybe they invented a ray that sucked out half of your IQ? More than half? Maybe it left you a gibbering idiot and you did this dumb thing."

"That's an alarming notion." Brains looked at him, perplexed. "Why would I want to think about that?"

"Because – you like redundancies, right? So maybe if you think about this now, you will have a plan in place."

"For when an evil genius invents a m-mind-sucking ray that turns me into an idiot?"

"Brains, I'm going to say this, and it's not something I say often, just so you know: you're not helping."

"Perhaps," said Brains, with understandable asperity, "if I knew what you were b-blathering about, I could."

"Okay. Fair enough." Gordon blew out his breath. "Okay."

A pause.

Brains' eyebrows lifted.

The pause continued.

"Gordon, if you really don't have anything to - "

"I screwed up with Lady Penelope. Big time."

"Oh, m-my. Why would you do that?"

"Because ray gun?"

"Ah."

"Yes, 'ah'. And now I feel bad whenever I take a breath, so – what should I do?"

Brains frowned.

"Uh- apologise? M-make amends?"

Gordon groaned and flung himself dramatically onto the seat at the bench upon which Brain's equipment was displayed.

"But she kills, Brains! She slays me, with a look, and when she liked me I could manage but now she hates me. Like, here, let me slice your eyeballs out with a scalpel and stick them on the wall so I can throw darts at them levels of hatred."

A slight shake of the head, and Brains muttered, "Your b-brain is astonishing to me."

"Right? My brain is astonishing to me, too, Brains ol' buddy. It astonishes that I could ever be so damned stupid to fall in love with someone so amazing as her."

"Wait, what – love?"

"And having made one dumb decision I then go and do the next dumb thing, which is let her know."

"D-did you say –"

"And then my astonishing brain goes and tells me that the best thing to do now is to make her hate me because that's a plan."

"I'm afraid I don't follow what –"

"So now she does hate me, because I'm nothing if not thorough, so yay, success, only my stupid brain didn't tell me to hate her, and I can't. I just can't."

Brains was just staring at him now, which was not at all helpful.

"So what do you think?"

A deep breath as Brains rallied, because he was good like that. Whatever the Tracys threw at him, Gordon knew he'd cope.

"Why are you asking me this of a s-sudden?"

"Oh. Yeah. Good call." Gordon sat upright. "Because Penny's just gone and invited me over for some shindig on Saturday night. Why would she do that, Brains? Some real fancy ball thing. She told me she has my measurements, so she'll organise the suit."

"Well, th-that sounds hopeful?"

"You'd think, right?" Gordon let his gloominess pervade his voice. "Only you didn't see her face. You didn't hear her. So polite. So friendly."

Brains blinked.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"No! Brains, no. Imagine if Moffy was polite and friendly to you!"

Gordon could tell that Brains was just not getting it. It was the look of utter bewilderment that betrayed him.

"I would hope for nothing less?"

"No, dammit. If she was like me, if – if everything hurt, she wouldn't be polite and friendly. She'd be angry. She'd be cold. She'd be like the one woman permafrost I got last time I talked to her. Don't you get it?"

"G-get what?"

Gordon gave a long sigh, the exhalation of the pain from the latest nail, hammered home so diligently.

"She's over it. Heartbreak done. If she ever was heartbroken. Not that I wanted her to be. Gah." Gordon threw his arms out. "Maybe Scott's right. Maybe I'm just a stupid spoiled brat who should just leave her be. I was the one who didn't want to bring my damage. I've done that. I've saved her from me. So now she's good and happy and she's all polite and friendly and it just – " He drew in a deep breath, as Brains had done, but this was like the breath taken before plunging to the bottom of the sea, free-form. "It just sucks."

Brains put down the beaker he had been holding all through this, and looked steadily at Gordon.

"I cannot p-pretend to be any kind of expert when it comes to – to such things. But it would seem to me that you have two choices."

"I do?"

"One." Brains held up a finger. "You can avoid her or any mention of her for the rest of her life. Expunge her from your m-mind and heart as you would drive out a bacterium."

"That – " Gordon took another swift breath. "No. I couldn't. I can't."

"Well, no, you can't because we will continue to work with her, I would imagine."

"Well, yeah, that, and I couldn't - if she wasn't in my world in some way, I – no. No, I couldn't do that."

"Then, you need to see her and talk to her."

"And say what?"

"Whatever it is you must? Gordon, this will either get better of its own accord or n-not. If you can't wait it out, you need to m-meet the problem head on. And for what it's worth, I have always considered you someone who would f-fight for what he wanted."

"So you're telling me to go to England?"

"That would be one thing to do, yes."

"Ugh."

"I take it that's an enthusiastic 'yes, I will'?"

Gordon pulled himself to his feet, as weary as if he'd taken a beating. "It's a 'damn you for being such a genius'."

"H-hardly. Reduce the problem to its working components. Continue as you are. Look to make a change. One requires inertia. One requires action. M-make a choice."

"Alright. London. I'll go."

Brains frowned. "I thought you were already going?"

"Yes, but now I'm going, going. And I'm going to say something."

A small smile came to Brains' face. Which, you know, good to see his pain was providing amusement for friends and family alike, but at least it was a kind one. Brain's smiles almost always were, which was another reason why Gordon liked him so much.

"Any idea what you will say?"

"'I'm an idiot' is redundant. 'Please forgive me and love the damaged mess that is me because I will make you happy' is an oxymoron. I think. I dunno. I'll wing it. Maybe I'll strip off and show her what she's missing?"

"It's an idea," said Brains, dubious, and that made Gordon laugh, something he hadn't thought possible when he wandered down in search of advice.

It was an idea, but he had two days to come up with a better one. He left the lab with a wave of thanks and found his way up to the open air and the sight of his beloved sea.  
Maybe somewhere in the unknowable, unpredictable, beautiful heart of her, she'd have answers for his.

 **Notes:**

The 'Tin Soldier' part of the title is inspired by the story by Han Christian Anderson - and god, what a heart-wrencher that is, seriously Hans, your head is a fascinatingly sad and dark place to visit - and the Small Faces song of the same name.

 **Series this work belongs to:**

Part 1 of the Edge of the World series


	2. Chapter 2

**Edge of the World: Tin Soldier**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Notes:**

I love Gordon and Parker together almost as much as Gordon and Penelope.

 **Chapter Text**

Creighton-Ward Manor House was Georgian in its outward edifice and overall design but built over a much earlier Jacobean manor house. The builder, the sixth Lord Creighton, kept some of the older elements when the conversion was done, most spectacularly in the banqueting hall to the left of the main building.

Gordon stood gazing up at the minstrel balcony and exposed beams that crossed beneath the roof some thirty feet above the stone flagged floor as staff moved purposefully around him. The room was in the process of being transformed into something resembling a forest from a futurist fantasy. Long streamers fashioned to appear like silver leafed branches criss-crossed the hall, dangling down in brilliant profusion, creating a sensation of walking into some shimmering glade, familiar and foreign at once.

"Quite a sight, eh, Gordon?"

"Yeah. Quite a sight."

Parker came to stand beside him, as phlegmatic and inscrutable as ever. Gordon was never certain of any kind of welcome where Parker was concerned. Given he had behaved appallingly to the woman they both loved, he suspected he was now ranked somewhere lower than a leprous tapeworm in Parker's taxonomy of the simple-celled life-forms. He tried not to flinch.

"Going to be a big night."

"Over an 'undred and fifty guests."

"Wow. So – big night."

 _The powers of idiocy are strong in this one._

"As I said." Parker managed to give him a side-eye without shifting his gaze an inch. Quite a talent, that. "I believe 'er Ladyship wants a word with you."

"Oh, does she? Yeah, of course. She would. I mean, she needs to. For tonight."

He'd met raw recruits still waiting on their balls to drop who had more sangfroid in the least of their acne than he was displaying.

"And I believe you," and at that, Parker did give him the benefit of his unlovely full attention, "want a word with 'er ladyship."

Those same balls of his own wanted to crawl back somewhere inside him at the look Parker was giving him.

"I don't know that I have anything to say that… that she would want to hear."

"H'I'm not so sure. Or, per'aps I should say, it might not be something she wants to 'ear as something she needs to. H'if you catch my meaning."

Of course. An apology. Penny would need that. It was probably why she invited him here, after all. She'd want her pound of flesh, and that was only fair.

"Got it. So, uh – what's the deal? I mean, with tonight? Something going on?"

"H'I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, sir."

Okay. There was condescension, and then there was Parker levels of condescension. It was the difference between being mauled by a kitten and a lion. A hungry lion in a pissy mood.

"Lots of famous people here tonight? Hobnobbing with the nobs?"

"There'll be one or two 'oo might pass muster."

"Well, yeah. Don't want the rabble at Lady Penelope's place." He gave a light laugh, wholly false. "Makes you wonder what they'll think of me, eh?"

"It does indeed."

Perhaps talking to Parker prior to seeing Penelope was not his brightest idea – and to be honest, there was quite a pantheon of dumb ideas to compare it with.

"Your suit's been pressed and is ready for you in the third guest bedroom."

"Thanks, Parker. Did she get me fluoro-orange like I asked?"

"You'll find it h'appropriate." Parker's tone suggested he thought otherwise, but that this decision was one best left to higher minds.

Remarkable, what that man could pack into one dry sentence.

"There you are, Gordon."

Her voice. Another nail. Nails. Large, railway sized pitons, slamming into the raw flesh, straight through the boards.

He hadn't been in the same room as Penelope since London and the military court. He'd wondered how he'd cope with the first real sight of her, when her body warmth was within reach of his, when her scent filled the air with flowers and spice, when he could hear each breath and take them in with his own.

He wondered how people could hurt this bad and still breathe.

Penelope was coming over to him, brisk and cool, utterly together and completely beyond him and his nonsense.

"I need to talk to you about tonight. As it happens there is a particular reason you've been invited. Come along."

It was possible, he supposed, to dig in his heels at this point and explain that he was having a very pleasant conversation with his man Parker here, even if it was masquerading as a mad proctologist's sick daydream, and he thought he could probably spare her five minutes in twenty or so.

Or he could follow as abjectly as a mouse off the main hall and into a tiny room piled high with serving platters for the party.

"Mouse it is, then," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing." He waved it off. "What can I do for you?"

Penelope turned to face him, her arms crossed.

"You might have wondered why I asked you to come tonight."

From somewhere in the depths of his wretched soul he summoned up something like his usual cheer and hastily assembled it into the shabbiest kind of armour.

"I've wondered a lot of things, Your Ladyship. That wasn't one of them."

"No?" An eyebrow lift that would quell someone less of a fool. "I thought perhaps after Edinburgh you might be feeling rather ashamed to see me."

And of course she went there. Straight to it. Not the slightest diversion, nary a tremor on the trigger as she lined up the cross-hairs and pulled it.

It robbed him of any thought. He could only look at her, a transfixed minor rodent. She nodded, satisfied.

"Be that as it may, I do need you tonight. There is a person I need to – discreetly disappear. She will be well attended with minders throughout the night. It's possible you might see where this is going?"

He couldn't see two feet in front of him. What the hell was she talking about? Couldn't she see he was down, felled, one perfect shot to the heart?

"Or not. Very well. I'll be direct."

Any more direct and she'd run right over him.

"I need you to create a diversion. I need someone to be incredibly foolish and extremely loud for approximately five minutes, so that I can get her away and off to somewhere safe without any overt action that can compromise my position. Do you think you could manage that?"

Eyes so blue and deep and cold it was like looking into the Arctic Ocean. How the hell could he concentrate for even a second when she was standing there, this close, and he was looking into the ocean?

"Gordon? Did you hear me? I need you to make a spectacular fool of yourself in front of my assembled guests." She gave the briefest of smiles, no more than a flattening of her perfect lips. "You can see why I couldn't ask any of your brothers."

The ocean would always take him.

"And of course I would never ask Parker. The man has his dignity, after all."

But it gave him life, too.

"Sure. You want grand scale stupid. I'm your man."

Another of those arched eyebrows.

"Indeed. I need you to be completely obnoxious at exactly 10.20pm. Do you think you can remember that?"

Gordon nodded.

"Keep my powers of noxious hidden away until 10.20 when I get to turn back into a pumpkin, right?" He gave a small bow. "For you, M'lady, anything."

"It's hardly a stretch." She swept past him. "Just be yourself."

The thing was, when you owed Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward a pound of flesh, she didn't wait to have it handed to her. She sliced it straight off the bone.

 **Notes:**

The 'Tin Soldier' part of the title is inspired by the story by Han Christian Anderson - and god, what a heart-wrencher that is, seriously Hans, your head is a fascinatingly sad and dark place to visit - and the Small Faces song of the same name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **Notes:**

Unforgivably, I forgot to thank my lovely beta, Soleil_Lumiere, for her work on chapter one, and she's alpha read the rest. So thank you, Sol, you rock.

 **Chapter Text**

The suit was indeed ready for him. In style it was very like the one he'd worn to the military hearing more than a month ago. Trim, tight to the body, flaring out over the hips. A dark chocolate brown, shot through with copper when it moved. The finest of wool and silk. A beautiful suit, one that she knew he'd love.

Despite all her cruelties, it was the kindness in this choice that scored most deeply.

Where were those boards when you needed them?

The third guest bedroom was painted in a powder blue, a cold colour for an English climate. Even though it was barely six o'clock and early summer, the room felt chilly and dark. The wide Georgian windows showed a sky clouded over but unthreatening; a typically dull English day that couldn't commit to the excitement of rain but couldn't summon the energy for sun, either. He went over to stand at the windows and watch the guests beginning to arrive, fashionably brilliant in their colour schemes. Purples and yellows and pinks, until the driveway in front of Penelope's house began to resemble a crazed child's crayon orgy. The way each one left their cars – discarding them, sure of their care but uncaring of said care's provenance – spoke of privilege and entitlement beyond anything Gordon had ever experienced. Jeff Tracy was determined his sons would be brought up with farm-fed values of hard work and kindness, and Gordon suspected neither of these had ever troubled the people below him much.

No; he was being unkind, right there. Looking at Lady Penelope you would never guess that here was a young woman who risked her life for the world in dangerous settings every other day. Who cared so much for others that she put aside the ease and comfort afforded her by centuries of status and wealth in order to challenge men like the Hood and the Mechanic, physically and mentally. Who was the kindest, sweetest, bravest and smartest of all women, anywhere, ever.

That was useful thinking.

Better to think of the diversion he needed to plan. Something that would get the attention of all.

A mental image came to him at once, and he smiled. Probably. No, definitely. Definitely, that would fit all his girl's requirements.

So he'd need to get hold of Parker.

A quick phone call, an agreement, and that was arranged. The Gordon Cooper Tracy Diversion Plan of Extreme Ridiculousness was in hand.

He shaved again.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Parker appeared in lugubrious triumph.

"I believe this is what you were after, Gordon?"

"Perfect, Parker, thank you. Where the hell did you find this at such short notice?"

"It's astonishing what can be found when rummaging in one's drawers."

"Er – sure."

With Parker waved away it took only five minutes' work, and then he was ready.

He eased the pants on. The trousers slid over his butt with the softest and coolest of touches, the white shirt felt crisp and smooth, the jacket fit to his shoulders as if painted on.  
Dammit. He loved this suit.

And he was going to be wearing it when he got to humiliate himself in front of the glittering crowd of Penelope's' invitees.

He patted his chest, the sleek lapels there.

"You deserved better," he said. Unsurprisingly, the suit didn't give any indication either way as to whether or not it was getting a raw deal.

He sighed, and tried to gather enthusiasm for the coming performance.

There was a small corridor, once used for the unobtrusive passage of servants, which ran alongside the main hall. Gordon came down the back stairway from the guests' rooms and paused there beside a narrow escritoire now laden with trays of champagne flutes; like him, empty, fragile, and waiting to be sent out amongst the noise and bustle next door. A large mirror hung against the wall beside a single, muted lamp and he paused to look at his reflection. Everything was as immaculate as he could make it, but as he stared at the image of himself all he saw was a dumb kid in grown up clothes, playacting at being an adult who made meaningful decisions, who pretended he knew how to negotiate the world of hearts and glass.

He took his eyes from the mirror and found her.

None of the bright colours for her. None of the glaring reds or violent blues.

She was wearing something that seemed at first glance to be nothing at all. Only her curves, slender against the darkness of the passageway; only her eyes, equally dark, only her hair, loose and up and golden. Only her, in the palest of peach and silkiest of fabric, standing and staring at him as though she were in a different mirror, untouchable, unreachable, wholly herself but forever part of him.

Only her.

And the boards across his heart were ripped away, splintered and broken, jagged. The worst kind of joy and the happiest kind of desolation as he looked at her and knew he was lost again.

She spoke first, and for some ineffable reason, her voice was shaking.

"G-Gordon. You – you startled me."

He swallowed.

"Sorry. Caught me lurking, I guess."

She turned and fussed with the glasses.

"Yes. Well. In England we have this absurd habit of actually mingling with our guests at parties."

"You crazy king-lovers."

"I didn't – " She paused, obviously gathering herself. "The suit."

"Yes?" Gordon glanced down at himself, hands coming to brush anxiously across his chest and his thighs. "It's okay? I think it's okay. Fits good."

"Yes. Yes, quite… quite acceptable."

"Oh. Good."

"Yes."

Staring at each other, in this small space, with the hubbub next door somehow adding to their privacy. Everything in Gordon's soul, all of it, was waiting there for him to give it breath, and he faced death daily, didn't he? He tackled tsunamis and currents and tornadoes and forest fires. He had courage enough, for this.

"Penelope, I –"

And she snapped the stem of the champagne flute she'd picked up, the body of it falling to smash against the cold linoleum floor.

"Oh!"

"Pen, you okay?" All haste toward her, and she took a step back. From him.

"Yes, yes. Fine. Silly of me. I'll let Burgess know, he'll deal with it." She opened the door and there was an instant trebling of noise and light. "Shall we?"

"Uh – Penny?"

"Gordon, I don't have time. Perhaps tomorrow, when my work is done."

"Yeah. No, I get it. Still – one favour?"

She turned a face from which all emotion had been wiped towards him.

"Could you maybe not introduce me as Gordon Tracy?"

"If you insist, though I don't – oh."

"Yeah." Gordon grimaced. "If I'm about to do something – flagrant, I'd rather my dad's name not be attached to it."

That flustered her a little, although she hid it well by smoothing down her already impeccable dress.

"Certainly. What name would you prefer?"

"Just Cooper. Gordon Cooper."

"Agreed."

Gordon bowed, and held back the door.

"After you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **Chapter Text**

He'd sighted her twice. On the arm of some long-faced idiot. No doubt called Peregrine, or Tarquin, or Hengest Hyphen Haw-Haw. Something suitable snotty. He tried and probably failed to hide his glower.

Parker passed by and gave him the subtlest of nods. Okay then. Everything was ready for his party act. He glanced longingly at the bar – but no. Not with what he was planning to do.

And then Penelope breezed over, the latest example of a shallow gene pool hanging off her like a weedy barnacle, smile brightly in place.

"Gordon!" A world of fancy-meeting-you-here, and he tried to summon a matching grimace of greeting. "Meet Barnaby."

Barnaby. Well, it would be, wouldn't it.

He heard something that sounded like 'Fanshaw' and stuck out his hand.

"Gordon Cooper. Nice to meet you. Fanshaw, huh? What are you a fan of?"

"Ha. Yes. Quite." Blandly, the young man gave the sort of smile one gives very small children or the congenitally dense. "It's spelled 'Featherstonehaugh', actually."

It really did sound like 'ektually'. He shot a look at Penny, equally bland in her expression, but he caught the gleam. Oh, she'd set that one up.

Nice one, your ladyship.

"Oh, sorry. I'm dyslexic." He wasn't. "I feel so embarrassed." He didn't.

None of it made sense, but Barnaby in turn looked mortified.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. That was very insensitive of me."

Gordon waved a hand, munificent.

"Don't worry about it, Barney." He watched as two high spots of fury formed on Penny's cheeks, and it gave him a little burst of something he didn't dare to call hope.

Only people for whom she had some feeling were able to get to his girl like that. Perhaps she wasn't totally immune to him.

"Yes, Gordon here is challenged in a number of ways," she said, sweetly. "We're very proud of his progress. In time he'll be able to dress himself."

"I'm in no hurry to learn while you're still tucking my shirt in," Gordon said, just as sweetly.

"You two know each other well?" said Barnaby, and he was clearly friendly and amused and ready to play along because for all his plumminess he was a good guy and Gordon didn't want good guys anywhere near Penny. That wasn't how this was supposed to be.

"Well enough to know we should be moving along, Barnaby, dear," said Penelope. She gripped his arm more tightly. "Do try and keep yourself nice, Gordon."

"For you, Lady Penelope, anything."

Anything, dammit, Pen.

A familiar buzzing in his pocket. He looked about him, and saw a darker corner behind an enormous vase, as tall as him, the kind of thing that had him wondering just what types of flowers they grew in England. He worked his way over for some privacy, then lifted out his comm.

"Alan?"

"Hey, bro."

"What time is it there?"

"Breakfast. About nine. Nine thirty? Nine thirty-five."

"So what are you doing?"

"Uh – calling you?"

"Why?"

"'Cos you didn't talk to me before you left."

"So?"

"So - uh, Virgil said, have you found your balls and talked to Lady Penelope yet?"

" _What_ did Virgil say?"

"Well, that wasn't him. That's my version."

"What is he doing talking about – "

"I asked. You didn't tell me."

"Virgil! Alan, put Virgil on."

"I can't, he – "

"No, wait." Gordon punched two digits on his comm. "Virgil?"

Silence.

"Virgil! Respond, Virgil, you slimy piece of –"

"Hey!"

"Alan, get off the comm."

"Why are you mad at Virgil?"

"'Cos he's a frog-faced scum-sucker, s'why."

"Oh." Alan took that with the equanimity of a boy long used to hearing violent insults between his brothers. "How come?"

"He flies a hunk of green shit, why wouldn't he be a frog? Yeah, Virgil, I called Two green shit. What are you gonna do about it?"

Alan looked behind himself, doubtfully.

"I don't think he's gonna do anything about it."

"Why not?"

"He's kinda laughing. A lot."

"Virgil!"

Alan looked back at him. "You know Virgil cracks up whenever you lose it. So why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Gordon gritted his teeth. "What's going on is the inevitable process of the winnowing of the weak and elderly from the herd. Virgil's being culled."

"No, that's not it."

"Trust me, it is. It's happening. Just not right now."

"No, 'cos right now you're trying to tell Lady Penelope why you were such a meathead."

"Is that more Virgil?"

"No. That's still me."

"Tell him to sleep light. Vengeance will come soft in the night."

"Uh – he said you're soft in the night. Now he and Scott are both laughing."

Gordon fumed.

"You tell them both that payback is my middle name."

"Seriously bro, I think they're gonna injure themselves."

Gordon brought the comm up close and hissed.

"I hope they give themselves hernias."

"Oh, Grandma's telling them off. She's saying you – oh."

Oh? Oh.

"Uh, sorry, Gordon, I didn't know what happened."

"What did – what is Grandma saying?"

Alan's voice lowered to a murmur.

"Can't now. Talk later. Just – man, I'm sorry, Gordie. Hey, good luck with – well, yeah. You know. England."

The comm switched off.

Ah, sweet humiliation. The kind that came with doting grandmothers and big mouthed brothers. He knew the flavour of this particular irritation well. It was a nice complement to the humiliation from Penny, the contempt from Parker, and the undoubted spectacular public embarrassment to come.

Mingling. With extreme prejudice. This he could do.

He moved about the room, never staying in one place too long, never getting snagged in anything like real conversation. So far as he could tell there was little of that to be found anyway. Much braying, much tittering, much peacocking and flirting. His eyes kept straying beyond, looking for her, dreading to find her, more fearful of not.

There was one small knot of people he quite deliberately tried to avoid, but his eyes strayed there occasionally despite his best intentions. A solid woman, with her head held high but eyes downcast, bracketed by two extremely large men who stared with less liveliness than could be reasonably expected from Easter Island statues. And behind them, a shorter man wearing a rictus of a smile, charm as camouflage to hide the fact his eyes were scanning the crowd like a predator. The lifeless thugs were impressive; the smiling man gave Gordon a frisson of concern every time he caught sight of him. His time at WASP had introduced him to men and women like this. They exuded a kind of pheromone that spoke of danger no matter how lightly they laughed, how willingly they joined in with social patter, and Gordon had this man marked as someone to avoid at all costs, if possible. Of course, the fact that what he had planned and its intended purpose both worked towards putting him directly in this man's way was one of those awkward little details that he had made it his life's work to ignore. Consequences, right? He'd never met a consequence he didn't try to hoodwink, and tonight would be no different.

Just past ten pm. Gordon tried to hide his intense boredom as the bloviating man in front of him continued to expound upon his own general brilliance in all things.

"Well, that's enough about me," he said jovially.

If only that were true, Gordon thought.

"So who are you?"

There was a kind of rudeness disguised as bluff good humour to which Gordon had long grown used over the years. Being young, short-ish and blond prompted it from most people over forty, and particularly those who fancied themselves captains of industry, as this one did.

"Gordon Cooper."

"And you're in..?"

Purgatory. Pain. Paroxysms of tedium that would fricassee your eyeballs.

"Salvage."

The man clearly lacked the imagination to work with that, and offered a grunt instead.

"Sounds dodgy. Prefer the stock-market myself. I'm investing in terellium just now, up by 300 points since last May, and if only my brother-in-law had had the sense of follow me, he'd be up a good three thousand pounds even as we stand here. Of course, that's nothing to…"

And then Gordon caught it.

It was the voice, one he'd heard a thousand times over the years, mellifluous and rich with knowledge and wisdom and often distorted by breathing apparatus far beneath the waves in some far-flung sea.

Aelfrida Kinniburgh. The woman who took the torch from Neil Degrasse Tyson and Brian Cox when it came to popularising science, and David Attenborough when it came to showing the world its own beauty. Gordon had watched her almost every day since he was old enough to sit in front of a TV. As the youngest of oceanographer wannabes he had stared, transfixed, as she explored ocean canyons and shone lights on creatures never before seen. Aelfrida Kinniburgh. The woman was a legend.

So, of course, he squeaked.

"Aelfrida!"

She turned, smiling. No doubt well-used to the flailing of the star-struck, and practiced in extending a forgiving benevolence.

"Hello," she said, an easy warmth emanating from her. That face, so immediately recognisable, so full of intelligence and character. "I'm Aelfrida."

"I know." Gordon coughed and brought his voice down a couple of octaves. "I mean, hi. Hello. I'm Gordon. Cooper, Gordon Cooper."

"Nice to meet you, Gordon." There was an air about her that suggested instant conspiracy. "Enjoying yourself?"

"It's not my usual scene."

"And where would that be?"

"Underwater." He blurted it out as if offering a secret password to a club they shared. Penelope would call him ten kinds of gauche, but Aelfrida's eyes lit up.

"Really? I've just left an abyssopelagic exp –"

"- expedition in the Kuril-Kamchatka trench, I know, I was following you online."

"Well." She laughed, and it was lovely. "I'm glad to meet a fellow enthusiast for the oceans."

"You have no idea. I'm a marine biologist, I spend every moment I can down there."

"Who are you with?"

She meant which university of course, which research institute. He felt the red creeping up his cheeks, and the many hundreds of people who would solemnly testify that Gordon Tracy was incapable of blushing would have the incontrovertible evidence to the contrary if they only had a camera at this moment.

"I'm not studying just now. I'm in – er, salvage."

"Underwater salvage? How fascinating."

He was unsure if she was being polite or truly interested, so he doubled down.

"I've got my own submersible."

"That makes such a difference, doesn't it?" She nodded. "So much more to see at 600 metres, don't you think?"

"Or 6,000."

"Six thousand?" A double take there, a reappraisal. "Your submersible goes down that far?"

"Further. Deepest I've ever gone was 7,000 metres, into the Mariana Trench, but she's rated to below that. She's small, but strong."

"Below 7,000?" Now there was genuine excitement. "Tell me, what size is it?"

"She's 13 meters. Modified for particular maneuverability." Gordon was catching her excitement. "Why?"

"Oh, my goodness. This could be most – you're a fan of our work?"

"Diehard. All my life," Gordon grinned. "There may be an episode of yours I haven't watched ten times at least, but I doubt it."

"I wonder – Joe!" She leaned over and grabbed a younger man with a thatch of red hair, heading past them to the bar. "Joe, tell Gordon here about the cavern."

"The cavern? You mean Kuril-Kamchatka? Ugggh." Joe squirmed. "Why are you torturing me, Aelfie?"

"We found a cavern," Aelfrida continued to Gordon, despite her requisitioning of Joe. "It's the most frustrating thing imaginable. We can only get probes up ten metres before the rock twists in such a way that we're stymied. But we're getting such readings from in there! Our cameras caught viperfish and bristlemouth, more, and the sonar is telling us that the thing opens out to a massive underwater basin, but we just can't get in there. Our sub is just too bulky."

"And you want me to use my sub?" It wasn't quite a yell. "Yes. Hell's yeah. I'd love to! You kidding me?"

"Not at all, I assure you. You'd consider it? Helping us out?"

"Consider it? I'm there. Tell me when."

Aelfrida beamed at him as though he were her star pupil and she an over-zealous teacher.

"Gordon, if you can give me your contact details – Cooper, you said? Give Joe your number, and we'll talk. This is tremendously exciting, I can't tell you."

It was exciting enough that he almost forgot Penelope and her mission.

"I work with my brothers, so we'll need to find a window, but yeah, I'd love to work with you, Aelfrida. More than anything."

Almost more than anything.

Without any kind of polite warning she was claimed by another woman, bustling her away while shrieking about someone she had to meet, but Aelfrida managed to call back, "Joe. Your number. Lovely to meet you, Gordon!"

Another buzzing in his pocket. His comm again, dammit. It was harder to wedge his way through the crowd this time, but he managed to make the quieter corner eventually after sliding between several thousand pounds' worth of satin.

When he opened the comm, it was the brother-who-was-dead-to-him.

"What do you want?"

Virgil, smiling at him, steady and kind as always.

"Relax, kiddo."

"What did you tell Alan about me and Penny?"

"Lot less than Grandma did. Seriously, I didn't tell him anything more than that you and Penny had a fight. And that you care about her, a lot, which he already knew. I guess he took that and ran with it. Or, more realistically, he's a lot less oblivious than we think. Don't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say."

"The whole frog thing, Gordo…" Virgil grinned at him. "You remember when you brought those frogs into the house and let 'em loose in John's bed? Come on. You can't blame us for losing it. Just thinking about frogs."

"When he started yelling about dismembered digits in his bed? That was weird. I mean, who feels frogs and thinks dismembered fingers?"

"Well, that's John. And frogs."

"I bow to your superior familial memory."

"Hey." Virgil's smile dimmed, and he got that look he had when he really wanted you to hear him. "You know we're on your side. All of us, Gordo."

Gordon huffed a little. It was sometimes hard to switch gears, and he had a really good case of grievance going against two of this older brothers, at least.

"Yeah."

"Just – tell her what we talked about on Tolsta. Tell her what happened."

"Why I turned into a meathead?" Gordon asked, rueful.

"Whaddya mean, 'turned into'?"

That deserved a flip of the bird, but present exalted company kind of cramped his style.

"Thanks," he spat.

"Dare I hope something said on a certain beach may have got through that noggin of yours?"

"Maybe? Doesn't really matter, though, does it? Penny called, and she asked for me." Gordon sighed. "Wouldn't matter if I was six feet under, I'd come running."

"Come on, bro. Uh – I gotta go, but you've got this. Use that famous Gordon Tracy charm."

Great. Except he wasn't Gordon Tracy tonight, he was Gordon Cooper, wasn't he.

The comm cut out, and Gordon stuffed it moodily back in his pocket. But it was funny, wasn't it, how somehow just hearing that there was a group of idiots 10,000 ks away who were rooting for him made something inside him just that little bit warmer.

He searched through the crowd and found Penelope, standing within a few feet of the anxious looking woman, glancing his way casually but with a glint in her eye especially for him. Check the time, fool.

"Tally ho," Gordon murmured under his breath.

Which is the moment the true cost of what he was about to do struck him.

"Oh, no!"

"Excuse me?" The portly stockbroker was near him again, and obviously ready to take offence if the remark was directed at him.

Gordon ignored him. A flush of pure misery filled his entire body.

Making a complete exhibition of himself in front of a room full of stuck up strangers he'd never see again? Pfft. Easy. He may well have chosen to do it without Penelope's insistence, just as a kindness to the handful of human beings in the room.

But – Aelfrida? His childhood hero, the woman he'd just agreed to work with in some new and exciting piece of deep sea exploration… Aelfrida?

She was here somewhere, even now maybe talking excitedly with Joe about the young man they'd so fortuitously found, and he –

Well, he was working his way to the centre of the room, directly under the crossbeam thirty feet above his head, in reaching distance of the secretly reinforced silver tendril shimmering innocently at a more manageable three feet above. And as he checked the time once more, and then looked up to eye the hidden rope that would take his weight, a new thought shot through him like a burst of arsenic in his veins.

Penelope knew.

She knew what she was asking of him and she knew his childhood hero was here and she'd calculated his annihilation to a nicety.

It was enough to make bile rise in his mouth.

The cruelty of it.

The hatred of it.

He'd been every kind of fool in his life, but this was the worst.

Nothing more pathetic, more worthy of contempt, than a love-struck moron insisting on pursuing a woman who despised him.

For a long, long moment he froze there, in the middle of all that glitter and gossip and gilt, incapable of movement. Incapable of any thought but one.

You've lost her. She's gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Notes:**

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

There was nothing to be done to salvage the fact that Penelope was lost to him, but he wouldn't let her down. Another job, an actual commitment. After all, he had never offered her anything out loud, whatever promises he made in his heart, except for this one thing – to create a diversion, at exactly 10.20pm.

Which, speaking of…

He bent down, difficult in the crush, and pulled first one shoe and sock and then the other off his feet, until his bare toes wriggled against the cold stone floor. With a grunt, he swung his arms backwards then forwards and gained enough of a vertical jump to reach up onto the disguised rope.

"Do you mind?' someone snarled, but he ignored them. Hand over hand, looping the rope around his feet, and he was shimmying up towards the beam even as the people beside him looked around in astonishment.

"Get down, you fool," someone else called, but Gordon kept going. Higher, twenty feet now, and there were cries of alarm below, some laughter.

"I think he's drunk," he heard, and he grinned to himself. Not drunk. Just stupid.

And very, very obnoxious.

He reached the crossbeam, and swung first one foot over it and then the other. It was a central joint, so the large beam that ran the length of the hall met the crossbeam here, creating an intersection where he could climb gingerly to his feet.

Surprising how high thirty-some feet looked when you were standing on top of it in your bare feet, nothing between you and the stone floor but a narrow beam, strings of lights, and silver leafage.

More laughs and much pointing down below. A shriek of horror from one.

"Ohh, you ain't seen nothing yet," Gordon sang out. Under his breath he said, "Come on, Parker. Right about – "

And, with Parker's perfect timing, the music amped up into the Pyremuncher's 2059 dance re-mix of 'Jumping Jack Flash.'

A travesty, Parker had muttered, but the heavy bass and scorching guitars crunched into action, and Gordon stripped off his jacket to whirl it above his head and yell, "God bless the everlovin' king of mighty England!"

Someone called, "Get security!"

"Yeah, good luck!" The jacket went flying, to where it landed on a group of pointing women, none of whom had the presence of mind to catch it before it wiped out at least six precious hairdos. Gordon whooped.

"Strike!" The shirt, ripped open and off, and the result of Parker's find and his own artistic efforts was now on display – his torso, covered in fluorescent paint swirls, one big heart painted in the middle of his chest.

"Come and get it girls!" he yelled, and the shirt plummeted outward, causing a push and sway in the crowd. He could see a darker line cutting through, presumably security coming towards where the rope dangled. It was the work of a couple of seconds to drop to his haunches and gather up the rope, giving a cheeky salute to the first security officer grabbing in futile annoyance at the tail end.

"You snooze, you lose. Whooo!"

Upright again and now it was the trousers, unzipped, pushed down, a quick balance on one foot as he kicked off the first leg.

Now his full torso could be seen – including a very large arrow pointing directly down to below his speedos. They were adorned with a St Andrew's cross, white on dark blue, a gift from his Scottish rivals at the Jakarta Olympics. He'd followed each line with the paint, and right in the middle of the front, one large, strategic target.

"One for the ladies!" A quick ass-shimmy, and there was a storm of laughter from below, some whoops and catcalls but plenty of whistles, too. "Whoa, yeah. Must be jelly 'cos jam don't shake like that!"

The leading security guard was pointing to the side, obviously directing some new tactic. Gordon didn't care. The other leg of his pants came free, and with a wild kick the trousers went flying to land almost perfectly on the guard's face. The guard snatched them clear and threw them down.

"Hey! Asshole! Be nice to my pants!"

And now the music was really kicking off, and Gordon gave himself to it, butt twisting, arms waving, head back and howling.

Here, Pen. Here.

On the wall he saw a ladder being positioned, allowing someone to climb up after him.

"Yeah, good luck with that!" he called out, as the first guard clambered up and made an awkward leap to hang from the crossbeam. His attempts to bring himself onto the beam were hampered by his boots which kept slipping against the ancient oak, and Gordon clapped him ostentatiously as he dropped back to the ladder.

"Nice work, bozo. Look. This is how it's done," and he began to run along the centre beam, to the increased shouts and shrieks from the crowd.

A group of young men by the bar were applauding wildly, clapping over their heads as their partners covered their own mouths with alarm and titillated shock. The band in the minstrel gallery kept playing, and even in the relatively dim light Gordon could just see the corner where he'd last seen Penelope, and even as he looked she and the woman beside her just – disappeared.

"Yeehaw!" She needed this, she needed him, a few seconds more. He did a split jump, eliciting more cries of fear from below, more screams of acclamation.

It was hard to make out the beam, obscured under streamers and light wires, but Gordon had a spatial sense to rival any of his brothers', and he knew to a millimeter where the central axis of the hall lay. He ran as freely as if he was on the farm, as if he was on the beach and the sky was blue, the sun was blazing, and his heart wasn't breaking, wasn't bursting in a dozen streams of blood and flesh across those nails, raised to the sky.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ladder hastily pulled down and awkwardly manhandled further along to try and follow his progress.

Was it five minutes yet? The song was almost finished – that was four minutes thirty, if he remembered right. So thirty more seconds of this, and then he could get down, find somewhere to ravel up his mess. But four minutes was a long time for these people, and unless he kept the thrills coming, chances were they would start to get bored.

"Hey!" Hands running down his body to linger over his crotch, circling. "Straight from the heartland of the good ol' US of A. God bless Her Maj, and here's a special package, express delivery, UPS!"

That drew a roar of outrage from somewhere. Good. Time to run the length of the hall the other way. A spin, and back towards the centre, the ladder wheeling about again below him.

"Give it up, guys! You got nothing. Seriously. You're gonna do some damage down there."

"Behind you!" a woman yelled, and he turned to see the main security guard had climbed out onto the beam from the minstrel gallery. Ooh, clever.

"Obviously the brains of the operation," Gordon called, with a mock bow. The guard was advancing cautiously, arms out to find his balance, as Gordon rocked on his bare feet, at his ease, taunting.

He checked behind him. Finally, someone had managed to put the ladder against the other end of the hall and a second guard was clawing his way up and onto the beam.

"Aw. You're no fun. Okay, okay." Backing, slowly, to the central joint again, where he picked up the rope one last time. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You've been a wunnerful audience. And so, for the finale – god bless America!"

Another quick look, following where Penny and the woman had gone – and instead it was the man he'd noted before, something in his hand, raising it…

And it was WASP Lieutenant Tracy who identified the fact and the detail of the weapon. A sonic pistol. Completely illegal. Truly silent. Capable of punching a tiny pocket of air at 400 miles per hour, hard enough that when it hit a human chest it burst the blood and lymph vessels like a million tiny exploding balloons.

No time for shock, or outrage. His body reacted before his mind had even begun a horrified, "What the hell?" He threw himself flat onto the beam, slipping and clutching at the ancient wood, and somewhere high above him he heard a soft whump as a centuries old window was disintegrated into particles, no doubt showering down onto the parked cars below.

A scrabble, frantic, as bare feet and sweaty palms worked to find purchase. Shrieks and laughs from below. For several long seconds he thought the battle was lost, and a thirty feet drop onto stone floor looked to be the horrible end to both the evening and him. But then toes used to curling over the edge of a surfboard managed to grip, and fingers found a hold on the twisted decorations. His body followed, shifting weight back onto the beam, and he knew he was secure, for now. He stared, open-mouthed and suddenly cold with shock, down at the man whose eyes met his. The smile had tilted into one of cruel amusement, and he watched as the pistol was expertly returned to somewhere in the man's jacket. Gordon's tactical brain was whirling, and he computed two things almost simultaneously: given the sardonic smile, the man had almost certainly deliberately missed, so Gordon's hasty drop and scramble for survival was simply playtime for the shooter; and that this man was undoubtedly the one that needed distracting, and so far it was working.

The man wouldn't shoot again. He wouldn't risk being spotted. And Gordon knew now that the stakes were deadly, so Operation Obnoxious Idiot needed to get back on track. Time to put himself out there again. It seemed as though once more Penny was risking herself in a far more dangerous game than he had realised, and damned if Gordon wasn't determined to play offense right alongside her.

Lightly, he jumped back up to his feet, his eyes never leaving the man below. More cheers from the crowd. Very deliberately, he bowed low to his would-be shooter, and then slowly wiped the middle finger of both hands across his fluorescent covered body until they were well coated enough that when he raised each one in a concerted middle finger salute they stood out majestically against the darkness of the vaulted roof above.

The man glowered at that, and moved quickly, closer towards the centre of the room, directly beneath him.

Thirty feet still looked a long way up.

But to hell with waiting for the security to escort him out of here. To hell with all of them.

His own battle cry, a kind of banshee screech that always sent Scott into a spiralling fury, and he ran straight towards the first security guard, who had a moment to look utterly terrified at the sight of the madman running toward him before Gordon jumped to the right, full length along the rope, his momentum carrying him out and away and down, swinging hard into the crowd, which collapsed like a jewelled soufflé.

Arms and legs and punches and slaps but he was up, slippery with sweat and desperate. Hands grabbing for him, but he dived down, between legs and into space, where he could run, head down, for the small door to the servants' passage, unnoticed by most so unguarded now.

He wrenched the door and slammed it behind him, his feet gripping to the floorboards as he sprinted, barely thinking, ricocheting down its length to the scullery and then the back door that led out into the courtyard to the rear of the Creighton-Ward House.

At last, the weather had decided it was wet after all. Rain pounded down. The floodlights at the front of the building bled light to the back, but they weren't needed. Security lights snapped on.

"Shit!"

He looked about him, thinking fast. No good going out the front. He was facing all the collected cars from the assembled guests, neatly parked across the courtyard and into the meadow beyond. Glass from the disintegrated window glittered in the rain and light where it powdered the car roofs.

There – the stables.

Ducking down, bent double, he ran between the cars. He had less than a minute on the guards. But if he could just get out of sight…

The head stableman's little side door to his office, and Gordon rattled its handle. Locked. Of course. But – ah, there, a downpipe and an open window, a storey up. Swiftly he knelt to wipe his hands free of the paint on the grass. Then he leapt at the downpipe, starting to climb with his hands already at ten feet of height. He reached the window and slithered in even as the rear doors of the mansion smashed open and he heard orders yelled, heard boots clattering on cobblestones, heard large bodies bouncing off cars in their haste to shoulder past.

He lay on a half-opened pallet of hay, dragging in great breaths, gasping with the need for air.

Had he breathed at all in the last ten minutes? Maybe not. Not since he realised.

Maybe the thought of Penny's callousness had stopped him breathing, forever.

 _No. Bullshit. Get a grip, Gordon._

It was over. Done, dusted, stillborn. And it hurt, god it hurt, but that was what you got when you put your stupid heart out there.

Or – no, when the best person you ever met in your life gave you her heart in return, and you stomped all over it because – because reasons.

This – wet, covered in greasy paint, sobbing for breath, sobbing, just sobbing – this is what you got, and what you deserved.

Gordon rolled over on the straw, curled into himself. Wasn't the first time he'd hidden amongst the hay while people (okay, usually Scott) came looking for revenge. He knew how to play this. Even as the stable doors were banged open, he burrowed down, making himself as small and invisible as possible, pulling his breaths into line even as he pulled handfuls of hay over his shoulders and head.

He'd slept in worse.

He'd done worse.

But damned if he could ever remember feeling worse.

 **Notes:**

End of Part One. The next part is from Penelope's perspective.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6** **: Penelope**

 **Summary:**

The morning after - from Penelope's point of view.  
Once more, I have to fix the mess I've made of these lovely boys and girls.  
And I've put John in the first chapter, for the ever wonderful Heavenward.

 **Notes:**

Such a long wait, I am sorry. Pneumonia, hospital, such joy. Thank goodness for the Australian health care system.  
Have two chapters in apology.

 **Chapter Text**

Penelope Creighton-Ward stood by her bedroom window and brooded.

It wasn't something she ordinarily indulged in. She might plan, possibly scheme; she might reflect, ruminate, ponder. Brooding however smacked of the kind of adolescent posturing she had abandoned years ago, and voluntarily. There was just the faintest whiff of self-pity in it, which Penelope Creighton-Ward did _not allow._

 _Still._

 _The morning was delightful, in the way that English mornings could be when the weather decided it had been so dreary for so long it had better pull out the big guns to stop anyone giving up on it entirely. And the evening gone had been a success, in every way possible, up to and including the added bonus of humiliating a ridiculous man who had treated her shabbily. One could conclude that her – well, her honour, for want of a better word, had been more than avenged. The appropriate emotion for this beautiful morning was satisfaction. Perhaps even a little self-congratulation. Nothing so vulgar as triumph, of course, one didn't need to parade one's victories. Quiet and calm approval would do._

 _That something else lingered, annoyingly, somewhere just below her breastbone, was irritating. Perhaps a little indigestion? Possibly she was simply hungry; she hadn't eaten anything last night beyond a canapé or two after all._

 _Yes. That was it. A hearty breakfast; gracious acceptance of one Gordon Cooper Tracy's abject apology; the extension of her subsequent, conditional forgiveness; and word of her little mission's final success. That was all that was required for her equilibrium to be restored, and she had every reason to believe each one of these would come to pass in the next hour._

 _A buzz from her compact alerted her, and she opened it to see John smiling._

" _John. An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you this morning?"_

" _Good morning, Lady Penelope. I thought I'd see how last night's party went. Everything okay?"_

" _You would have loved it."_

 _John did that thing he did when anyone else would have laughed – a kind of lightening of the eyes that told her he got the joke._

" _I have my doubts. So. How is Gordon?"_

 _Ah. John, as bluntly tactful –or was that tactfully blunt? – as ever._

" _Gordon is perfectly well. He seemed to enjoy himself last night."_

" _He did? That's good. I was hoping he'd – well, just have some fun."_

 _Kindness and concern for others were two of John's chief traits, so his comment was hardly unexpected. For some absurd reason, her belly gave a little twist._

" _Last I saw him he was swinging from the ceiling."_

" _Oh. Er – I probably didn't mean that much fun."_

" _Well. I suspect expecting good behaviour from your brother is rather like expecting manners in a chimpanzee."_

 _Now John was frowning, and the twist in her belly grew tighter._

" _He didn't drink too much?"_

 _It would be very easy to say yes, rather the worse for wear I'm afraid, appalling display, however did you raise him? That would confine Gordon to his brothers' concerted displeasure and complete the punishment which he had so clearly earned. But it would be manifestly unfair and untrue, and Penelope would not sacrifice her principles for the sake of adding to a revenge already achieved._

" _No, no, not at all. I suspect high spirits, that's all."_

 _John's frown cleared._

" _Really? You mean – you two talked? It's alright again?"_

" _Talked? About what?"_

" _You know." John waved a hand. "Edinburgh."_

 _She didn't need to summon the ice. It was there in full, sharp and cutting._

" _Edinburgh? I have no wish to discuss that or anything else with him. Or anyone."_

 _He was staring at her now, those large green eyes full of worry and compassion, and abruptly she turned away from the window and strode to her wardrobe, flinging it open and glaring at the contents as if they were to blame for the two spots of heat she could feel on her cheeks._

" _Well, I mustn't keep you, John. I have quite a full schedule today, and I know you're busy."_

" _Penelope…"_

" _When I see Gordon I'll tell him to call you."_

" _Penelope, stop. Please. I wish you'd talk to him."_

" _I have. I did. I was perfectly polite."_

" _But I take it you didn't talk about what happened, and why?"_

" _Rather busy with other things, I'm afraid, as I am this morning, so if you'd excuse me – "_

 _John raised his hand as if to physically stop her. "Seriously. You know how I – dislike this kind of conversation, Penny, you know it. But Edinburgh. It wasn't – he - we were all struggling there."_

" _Gordon managed to communicate himself rather effectively."_

" _No, that's the thing. I know I wasn't doing particularly well, but Gordon and Virgil, they'd been through a hell of a lot. I've spoken to Virgil, he told me that there was a lot going on. I was really hoping he'd tell you about it."_

" _Gordon was rather too busy with that ceiling I told you about."_

" _Oh."_

 _That John was disappointed was immediately apparent, but whether it was with her or his brother she couldn't say. It was an uncomfortable feeling._

 _A knock at the door meant immediate deflection._

" _Ah. That's Parker. I really must speak with him."_

 _John sighed, and those eyes now were sad, and it was hard to bear._

" _Promise me you'll give him a chance?"_

 _That sparked a flare of resentment._

" _Why, exactly?"_

" _Because – "_

" _I am aware that he is an otherwise fine human being, but he treated me abominably and I struggle to see why I should offer him anything but the most basic of courtesies."_

" _Penelope." John really was at sea in this kind of conversation; his struggle to find the words was obvious, and on any other occasion she might have found it charming and come gracefully to his rescue. But not this time. Not this conversation. "Just – the thing is, Gordon doesn't usually have much of a filter."_

 _She allowed a double eyebrow raise at that, because really._

" _Well, he had one in Edinburgh. And when he came home." He grimaced. "It kind of hurt to see it."_

 _Another knock, and she turned to the sound._

" _Come in, Parker." As the door opened, she gave John her best lady-of-the-manor smile. "I'll bear it in mind, John. Now I really must go."_

 _The compact snapped closed._

 _She should be annoyed with him, of course. It was none of his business how she treated his brother, and furthermore he wasn't present in that hospital room in Edinburgh when Gordon behaved so dreadfully. When he told her that he saw through her Florence Nightingale routine. When he said he'd come to a few realisations about life, and realised the mistakes he'd made, and that someone like her was just too –_

 _She crushed that memory, ruthlessly._

 _But she couldn't fault John for trying to defend the indefensible. It was sweet of him. Misguided, but sweet. John, she liked. Gordon, on the other hand…_

 _Well. One hour. One hour and all would be well. Then perhaps she could re-establish a courteous working relationship with that fourth member of International Rescue and they could all simply get on with their lives._

 _She lifted her chin higher._

" _Ah, Parker. Sleep well?"_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 **Notes:**

Parker is so much fun to write.

 **Chapter Text**

"Beautiful morning, m'lady."

 _Yes. Yes, it is._

She didn't bring her eyes away from the window. It held the view she had known all her life; stables to the left, low walled garden to the right, and directly ahead the open spaces of the park. Last night's rain was now transformed into sparkling gleam.

"Everything all right, Parker?"

"Depends what you mean. Downstairs is being tidied. We'll have that ship-shape in no time."

"Good. Good." She wished she didn't sound so distracted. With a tiny internal shake, she lifted her head and brightened her voice.

"Splendid night, Parker."

"Indeed, m'lady."

"I suppose there's no word of our erstwhile friend?"

"Nothing yet." Parker appeared a little dissatisfied himself. There was a subtle art to reading the man, but she'd mastered it years ago. Something was troubling him; the lugubrious folds of his face were slightly deeper than they normally would be, and his usual frown was somehow sharper. "H'I expect they're somewhere on the 'igh seas by now."

"Let's hope so. And the rest of our guests?"

"Most went home last night, m'lady. Lady Evenham decided it was all too exciting for 'er, she had a car sent round. Won't be staying with us after all."

"Oh dear. Remind me to send flowers."

"Already done, m'lady."

"You think of everything, Parker."

"H'I try, m'lady." Parker cleared his throat. "But I do 'ave it on good authority that not all of our guests 'ave gone. H'apparently, four of the people wot were with our friend are still in the vicinity. Seems they might be thinking we've 'idden her on the premises, 'stead of passing her on."

"I see." Penelope pursed her lips slightly. To the best of her knowledge there were only six agents of Berezniki active in the UK at this time. Four here meant two unaccounted for. "That could prove somewhat tiresome. On the other hand, if they're focusing on us, they're not looking elsewhere. Perhaps we should encourage their ongoing interest."

"My thoughts h'exactly, m'lady."

Her phone rang.

"Darling."

"Mabel." Parker's head came up, instantly alert, as Penelope answered it. "How lovely to hear from you. I thought you've been tripping about on the high seas this week?"

A misdirection. Mabel should be on board a yacht heading for the safe house in the Azores, but it could only have left with their Berezniki friend sometime in the early hours of this morning. Penelope and Parker were free to speak of whatever they liked within the walls of the manor house, as it and all the outbuildings including the stable were completely shielded from electronic surveillance, but Mabel's phone was not so secure. It would take a high level of expertise to hack into the line, but Penelope's training was clear; anyone could be listening.

"Would that I were." A light, rueful laugh. "Do remind me to never trust Uncle Terry to plan one of our trips again."

Uncle Terry. Sir Michael Edward-Groves, head of MI6.

"Oh dear. What's the old duffer done now?"

"Frightful bore, the whole thing. Got here last week and found the boat we were supposed to be sailing about on was in dry dock for repairs."

So they were trapped in England. The sea-going yacht organised to take them was inexplicably unavailable.

"Goodness. Where are you?"

"We're staying at Aunt Sally's for now." That was a safe house in Hastings, the port from which they were supposed to leave.

"What's the weather like?"

"Oh, passable. But I suspect one might get warm if one went outside for long.."

So Mabel suspected at least one tail, but she felt secure enough if they stayed low in the safe house.

"That's something, you poor thing. But whatever will you do about your holiday?"

"No chance of popping up for a few days, I suppose? Really don't want to be going back to Conwy with my tail between my legs, and Hasting's charms are limited."

Penelope thought quickly.

"I'd love to have you of course, but I'm afraid that's not possible. My father's ordered decorators in, the whole house will be crawling with them this week. Just a freshen-up, generally, but he's thinking of bringing a little more colour to the downstairs rooms. Perhaps a little blue – that rather nice teal."

'Teal' was the code word. Mabel knew now that Creighton-Ward Manor was not secure.

"Let me think on it, darling. We can't have your holiday ruined. I do know some lovely old families in the Home County who might take you in."

"If you could possibly find us another boat, that would be marvellous."

"I'll see what I can do. I'll be in touch."

"Bye, sweetie. Thanks ever so for being a shoulder to cry on." Another huff of laughter. "Ridiculous old Terry."

She hung up. Penny turned to Parker.

"I suppose you followed that?"

"H'I take it things aren't going as planned?"

"No boat." Penny indulged in an agitated drumming of fingers on the escritoire. "That should never have been the difficult part of this operation. And Mabel coming to me rather than Sir Michael means she's worried about the reasons why."

Parker's air of general dissatisfaction grew gloomier.

"You mean, she thinks there's a mole?"

"Possibly. It would almost be better than the notion of such incompetence in MI6." Penelope straightened even further with sudden decision. "Parker, I think you're looking peaky."

"M'lady?"

"A trip to the seaside would be just the thing."

Parker's eyebrows rose in surprise, then drooped in resignation.

"Very good, m'lady."

"If needs be, use FAB1 to deposit our friend where she needs to go. I didn't want to use it from here, but I'm sure you can be discreet now that she's nowhere near the Manor."

"Right you are. A bright pink flying car is always the discreet option."

"In the meantime," she continued, with a slightly heavier emphasis for his benefit, "I will do whatever I can to keep their attention here."

She turned back to the window, as if she could spot the lurking agents from there.

"So." Light, firm and bright. "What about our American friend?"

"Coo. That weren't half a to-do he put on last night."

"Quite appalling," she agreed. "I suppose he's not up yet?"

"Well, truth is, 'e's nowhere to be found, m'lady." Was that a trace of recrimination in Parker's voice? "'Is bed's not slept in. Last anyone saw 'e was scarperin' out the back door, h'apparently."

"Last night?" She forgot herself and allowed the smallest of frowns. "In that cold and rain?"

"H'it appears so, m'lady."

"Wearing – well, wearing absolutely nothing?"

"'E did have 'is modesty covered, m'lady."

"Barely." She pulled the velvet curtain further aside. The sunshine now looked chilly. "Where could that silly man have got to?"

"No doubt 'e's 'oled up somewhere. Right freezin' to be out in that last night without clothes. I've had the staff looking – can't find 'ide nor 'air of him."

"Why on Earth would he disappear like that?"

"Well, them guards looking after our Berezniki friend. They were after 'im."

"They were?" Concerned now, she gave all her attention to the man she trusted most in the world. "I was busily attending to our guest. What exactly happened last night, Parker?"

"Put on quite a show, 'e did. There were some security staff from our lot, and then there were a few wot came along with some of the more important guests. They were very enthusiastic in trying to apprehend 'im."

"They chased him outside?" The smallest inflection in her voice, betraying her increasing alarm. "But they didn't catch him?"

"Not so I 'eard, m'lady."

"Well. Then it seems there is nothing to worry about. Although I do find the notion that those guards might have chased one of my guests, no matter how - American he was behaving, is somewhat discomfiting."

"Indeed, m'lady. Chasing, and something more besides. Seems like they might have fired at 'im. There's a window out in the hall, completely shattered from the inside."

"Parker!"

"No signs of blood, m'lady. Plenty of that fluoro paint down the 'allway – Burgess isn't 'arf complainin', this morning. It's a right sod to clean off woodwork." His voice grew gentle. "'E was moving sharp-ish. And e'd 'ave left a trail if they'd got 'im."

They looked at each other then, these two who had partnered in so many adventures over the years. She wondered how much he saw, and supposed, wearily, he probably saw more than she did.

"He could have been outside all night? Dressed in nothing but ridiculous body paint?"

Parker gave a small chuckle.

"H'I doubt that, m'lady. "E'd have found some place to bed down."

"You're sure?"

"Well. It is Gordon. Not so much sure as 'opin'. But 'e's not entirely without resource, m'lady. If 'e found his way out of a haunted tomb in the middle of the jungle, h'I'm sure he can survive one night in a manor 'ouse in England."

"You'd think so," she murmured. The window claimed her again and she stared out at it, as her stomach turned slowly and she wondered.

It was a view so familiar to her. And it was her awareness of every detail born from doing just this almost every day of her life that had her eyes unconsciously lingering at the stables. Most particularly, to the first storey window above the stable head's office. Nothing there except straw, stored above the loose boxes of the stable proper. And yet –

Ah.

Her growing worry cooled. It was doubtful anyone else would have ever noticed it, but the frame of the window was not quite sitting true.

And as she focused more intently, she thought she could see the barest smudge of something on the lower window sill, usually a clean and scrubbed oak finish.

"Parker."

"M'lady?"

"I need a bucket of hot soapy water, and a sponge."

"M'lady." Not even a question in Parker's voice, damn him.

"And a travel mug with hot cocoa. Two mugs. And two ham and cheese croissants. By the back door, in five minutes."

"Yes, m'lady." Parker paused. "H'I take it you 'ave an inkling…?"

"I do indeed."

"Very good, m'lady."

She wasted no time in getting changed. And then another idea came to her, and she grabbed a backpack, some items from the walk-in wardrobe hidden inside her other walk-in wardrobe. It came to her the moment she realised where Gordon had gone to ground, and she didn't examine it beyond realising that it gave her an immediate course of action and was something she desperately wanted to do. Anything, anything at all, to get away from this absurd feeling growing within her that perhaps she hadn't been what her old nanny would have called her 'best self' last night.

Nonsense. She'd accomplished an important task, engineered the escape of a woman in grave danger from her own government's plotting, right under their own secret agents' noses, and even managed to resurrect the evening after Gordon's display. Except, it seemed, for Lady Evenham.

Ah, well. She'd given the gossips something to furnish their afternoon teas with for the next month, she supposed. Something Lady Sylvia had taught her to do every few years or so.

"No one trusts absolute discretion, my dear," Aunt Sylvia had said. "People say they do, but in the end they'll always wonder what you're hiding. And perfection breeds resentment and suspicion. No, a mild but lively whiff of scandal every now and then keeps people thinking they know exactly what you're hiding, and stops them looking for anything else."

Well, Gordon had done that all right. She could afford to be pure as the driven snow for the next few years on the back of that outrageous display. For that alone, she supposed she owed him some thanks.

Or at least, a bucket of water and breakfast. And the chance to be of further use, a little voice whispered to her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **Summary:**

Sigh. slow process, this one.  
But more Gordon and Parker, so there's that.

 **Chapter Text**

She came downstairs to find Parker waiting at the back door, as ordered. The bucket of soapy water stood at his feet, along with a towel (which she hadn't thought to ask for) and a basket carrying something under a crisp white linen napkin.

"Thank you, Parker. I believe I will be taking the horses out today."

"Very good, m'lady."

She swung the backpack over her shoulder, took the bucket in one hand and the basket on the other arm and headed for the stables.

Two of her stable staff were just coming out from the main section of the old stables.

"Morning, Lady Penelope."

"Morning, Cathy. Nick. How are they looking today?"

"You're thinking of going out?"

"Mm. Who's most in need of a run?"

"I'd say Ashgar." Cathy, a broad-set woman in her late fifties, gave her a friendly smile. "Good to see you getting the chance to have a ride. You've been that busy lately."

"I know. And I do miss them so. Anyone else do with some exercise?"

"Well, Nisa," said Cathy, hesitantly. "But I'm afraid I can't go with you this morning. We've got an appointment over at Hyde's stables in Lilley, looking at that colt you were interested in."

"Oh, that's quite all right, Cathy. I was just wondering."

"Then you won't be needing us?" Nick, Cathy's husband, came to stand beside her.

"No. Off you go. I'm quite excited about that colt."

Nick nodded.

"If he's as good as he looks online… that Iomud strain could be just what we need for the endurance trials."

With friendly waves they headed off. It occurred to Penelope how well trained her staff were. No one asked about the bucket or the basket. The people who worked at Creighton-Ward Manor were very adept at looking past all kinds of things that might excite comment in those with more speculative, not to say greedy, minds. Of all the qualities Penelope looked for in her staff, loyalty was the most important. She knew she could trust these two not to say a word of what they saw.

She entered the comparative gloom of the stables and paused as her eyes adjusted to the softer light. Large skylights and small windows above each loose box allowed enough natural light in the old building to keep it pleasant inside, but the morning sun had been deceptively bright. She called soft greetings to the one horse who had left his breakfast and was standing with his head over the loose box door, then headed up the steps to the hay loft set on a mezzanine level along the length of one side of the stable.

There was no immediate sign of Gordon, but she slid the backpack off her shoulder and dropped the bucket with confidence. Another smudge of bright lime green marred the interior sill of the end window above the office.

She put down the breakfast basket and picked up a pitchfork.

Her initial impulse to be vigorous in her investigations was calmed by the better angels of her nature. Instead, she prodded gingerly beneath the loose hay.

Nothing, for the first five forays, and then – "Owfmmph."

"Good morning, Gordon," she said, brightly.

The hay heaved, and a tousled blond head poked up through the centre of it.

 _Twelve, she thought. He looks like a twelve year old. What am I doing?_

"I rather thought you might like some breakfast."

Gordon didn't answer immediately, unusually for him, as he shifted on his bottom so that he was sitting more upright. He looked blearily at her, then at the stable beyond, then at the basket.

She expected an inane repetition of the word 'breakfast', but instead he just said, simply, "Yeah." Then cleared his throat and added, "I mean, yes, please."

She wondered if he realised how child-like he looked, how comical, how pathetic.

The morning sun came through and haloed his hair from behind, the gold dulled with sweat and rain and sticking up all over his head as haphazardly as the straw did.

She wondered if he knew he had tear tracks dried to his face through the grime.

The realisation made her brisk.

"Here. Ham and cheese croissants, hot chocolate. My goodness, you must be freezing."

He just looked at her for a second, no expression, then he shrugged.

"No. Not too bad. Kinda warm, under the straw." He gave a chuckle, but it didn't sound like him, not at all. "Not the first time I've hidden out in a barn."

"Probably the first time you've done it without most of your clothes," she said, and tried to make it a little more friendly. Gordon looked down at himself, still mostly covered in straw, and shrugged again.

"Here." She put down the basket and pulled out a mug and a croissant. He reached up and took them from her, and some of the straw fell away.

There was nothing childlike about the chest that was revealed.

She knew he was fit, of course, had watched his Olympic race from when he was a streamlined sixteen year old, but until this very second she hadn't realised how much muscle was packed beneath his IR uniform these days, how much the boy had become the man. It was always there, a subliminal strength, in her image of him. She remembered how it felt when he lifted them all towards the surface in that wretched tomb of Sapa Catanqui - the solidity of him. The security. The sense of safety in the midst of the most appalling danger, the certain knowledge that he would never let her go.

And she'd known, even before last night, that he looked good in another kind of suit.

But this was different. She didn't know what it was, or why, but she was suddenly aware of him in a way that was bothersome. Unwelcome.

Scalding.

He demolished the croissant in three seconds. At her look, he swallowed properly and said, "Didn't get to eat last night."

"Ah." Carefully avoiding looking at him and his damnable chest any further, she found an intact bale and settled herself upon it in approved lady-like fashion, ankles crossed. She sipped decorously at her own mug. Gordon rubbed at his eyes, clearing the sleep from them.

"So did it work?"

"Did what work?"

"The person you were…"

"It's an ongoing process." She dropped her eyes to the floor of the stable below, pretending to look at the horses. The sound of heavy chomping came from three of the stalls. Ashgar continued to look out over the door, occasionally nodding his head.

"More to be done, huh. "

It wasn't only his hair that was dulled this morning. Everything that she associated with Gordon – his liveliness, his conceit, his friendly kindness, and yes, his toughness – was hidden away. She may as well have been talking with a polite stranger.

I did that, she thought.

"Yes." Abruptly, she stood up. "Well, there's a bucket of hot water and soap here. And a towel. I rather thought you might like to wash up a little."

He looked at her as though she was speaking some kind of foreign tongue.

"I guess?" He frowned, but only slightly, as though his heart wasn't in it. "I can't have a shower in the house?"

"I believe there may be some people who are still watching us. Apparently, you attracted rather more attention than I anticipated last night."

He blinked at her.

"Weren't they your security chasing me last night?"

Another pang of something unpleasant into her stomach.

"Not all, no. You did your job rather too well. I'm afraid you had some of the Bereznik security people annoyed."

"Yeah, that's me. I could annoy for America. So –uh," he cleared his throat again. "So they were the ones who fired at me?"

"Of course! I only heard about that this morning." An awful thought struck her. "Gordon. You haven't spent the night thinking that it was my…?"

"No. No. Yeah, no. 'Course not."

Which told her he'd done exactly that.

"Gordon!"

"Well, you were pretty mad at me."

"Mad enough to send armed guards after you?"

"Maybe?" She raised an icy eyebrow, and disconcertingly that was the thing that made him suddenly chuckle with some of his usual warmth. "Okay. Not you. Crazy Berezniki guards. Got it."

"You did a – well, a highly effective job," she said, less grudgingly than she'd planned. "I don't think there was anyone in that hall who wasn't staring at you by the end."

The brief glow of sunshine in his face faded, and when he spoke, his voice was dulled.

"Yeah. Pretty sure they all got an eyeful." He took a sip of the hot chocolate, then drained the mug.

Something tugged, hard, at her heart. That was impossible of course; any part of her that held any high regard or warmer feeling towards Gordon Cooper Tracy had been expertly perma-frosted weeks ago. Layers of ice, laid over steel bulwarks and iron chains. The thought that his unhappiness could possibly strike past those sensible and reasonable and hard-earned defences was an absurd one.

"I do have another task for you. If you're interested." Last night she would have said 'capable'.

"Sure." He gave her another shrug, a kind of helpless acknowledgement. "Anything you want."

What is he envisaging, she wondered. More humiliation?

Hurriedly, she unzipped the backpack and pulled out a jumble of clothes. "Come riding with me?"

"Riding?"

She nodded downwards.

"Horses? Saddles? Riding?"

He looked at her, at the clothes, and back to her. A flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher crossed his face.

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why?"

If Penelope Creighton-Ward was someone who ever did 'flustered', that look would have her so.

"It's a beautiful morning and the horses need exercise."

"Uh-huh." He leaned forward. "Come on, Pen. I don't mind being used, but I do like to know what I'm signing up for."

And this was the damnable thing about Gordon, wasn't it? Just when she had him pegged as a pretty, silly boy he sent her a look that – well, a look like that one.

"You're right in thinking I have an ulterior purpose. I rather thought that offering the agents still keeping the manor under surveillance something to occupy themselves with would be a good plan."

"Why?"

As persistent as a five year old.

"Because…" She hesitated. It irked her to admit that something had gone awry with her plan. Gordon squinted up at her, then waved a hand, rescuing her. Damn him.

"Doesn't matter. You want bait? Happy to oblige, your worshipness. Let's go grab us some gee-gees and hit the trail."

"Do you actually know how to ride?"

"Now, I know you know better than that. Born and bred in a briar patch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Raised on a ranch, m'lady."

"Humph." Penelope titled her nose slightly. "I seem to recall a story about you getting on a horse backwards."

Did she actually just humph at him? Nanny would be appalled.

"And me always so reluctant to play for laughs." Gordon stood up, and she was reminded again just how very skimpy the underwear was. Quickly, she stood up as well, brushing off the few stray pieces of hay that clung to her jodhpurs.

"Very well, I'll go and get them saddled while you get yourself washed and – well, I was going to say presentable. Let's just say 'covered'."

He gave her a passable, if ludicrous bow and she stepped past him to the ladder.

"Just leave everything there when you're done. Bring the backpack with you."

On the ground floor again she busied herself putting bridles on Nisa and Ashgar. Both of them threw their heads up and down in an obvious expression of pleasure at the thought of a gallop. She sympathised with the sentiment, but their efforts lifted her half off the floor each time.

Saddling was easier. Both horses were without vices, and both stood easily for her as she carefully flattened saddle rugs and tightened girth straps. By the time Gordon came down from the hayloft she was leading the stallion out of the loose box to tie beside Nisa at the grooming post.

He stood with the backpack at the foot of the ladder, and opened his arms, presenting himself.

"Better?"

Her appraisal began at his bare feet – she'd have to do something about that – then lifted to his legs, where her jodhpurs had more than enough give in them to stretch across his thighs. Above that – she stifled a squawk of laughter and went back to adjusting the stirrups on the mare.

"What?" Gordon was looking admiringly down at himself. "I'm loving this jacket. It's a real hunting jacket, right?"

"Yes, it is." If ever she needed proof of his barbaric taste, it was here. "Although hot pink is usually the province of the female members of the hunting party."

"You still do that?" Gordon asked, obviously unfazed by the information and with more than a hint of disapproval in his tone. "Hunt animals?"

"Goodness, no. It's been banned for many years. But people do love the pageantry of it. Now we just get dressed up and go for rides."

"Uh-huh. I think – whoa." Gordon stopped twisting to see his backside in the jacket and gazed at the horses. "Wow. Look at them. They're beautiful, Pen."

Immediately pleased despite her intention to remain cool, Penelope stepped closer to run her hand down Nisa's glossy flanks.

"They are rather lovely, aren't they? They're Akhal-Teke. My grandfather spent years developing a breeding program. You'll be riding this one, the mare, Nisa. I'll be on Ashgar, that beautiful buckskin fellow there."

"Wow. So shiny." Alright, the words weren't of particularly scintillating quality, but she found herself quietly approving the way Gordon came over to Nisa and held his hand up to her so that she could scent him, and then gently rubbed her nose and ears. It pained her when people showed bad manners around animals.

Then again, she thought a little more acerbically, trust Gordon to have better manners with a horse than with people.

Now that really is unfair. You asked him to be a hooligan last night. He was perfectly charming otherwise.

Nisa's head began to sag, her eyes to droop, as Gordon worked a particular spot just behind her left ear.

"Oh, for goodness sake." Penelope left the horses to fetch the backpack and a duster hanging over a nail by the furthest loose box door. "You'll have her asleep at this rate. We are meant to be escaping, remember?"

Gordon gave a soft chuckle. He'd brightened again in the company of the horses.

"Here." Penelope gave him the duster coat. "Put this on. And -" she rummaged in the backpack, before bringing out two more items, "these."

He took them from her with a trace of his usual curiosity.

"Kinky."

"Not at all. Just put them on."

A long black wig – a favourite of hers, actually, she rather enjoyed the drama of it – and a traditional riding cap. Gordon bent forward to fit the wig, throwing his head back in a way that told her he'd worn wigs before. She dreaded to think for what epicene purpose.

The black hair made him look older and more severe. It didn't suit him, but it wasn't meant to. It, and the riding cap, and the shapeless duster over the women's hunting rig were meant to convince a long range surveillance unit that this was in fact an amateurish effort to smuggle a middle aged Berezniki minister into the countryside.

A shadow, in the morning sunlight, and Parker stood in the entrance to the stables.

"H'I see you found 'im then." Parker peered at Gordon, and then shook his head in elaborate dismay. "Frightening the 'orses, was 'e?"

"Hey!" The tone may have been trying for aggrieved, but it came out as more of a whine. "I got shot at last night."

"H'I am aware." Parker sniffed. "If I'd 'ad a gun, h'I might 'ave 'ad a pop at you myself."

"What?" Gordon tried to inject a sense of outrage into his exclamation. It wasn't his usual, flagrant exhibition of injured innocence, and the hollowness at the heart of it was clear to her. But Penelope saw something she suspected he was missing. There was a definite gleam of approval in Parker's eyes, even as he appeared to stare down his extraordinary nose at him.

"Gallivantin' about up in the air on a beam with barely a stitch in front of all 'er ladyship's guests. H'I don't know what you were thinking."

"I was thinking," and there was a real spark of annoyance in there, "I was doing exactly what I'd been asked to do."

"That may be, but there was woodwork involved. Burgess 'as 'ad quite the morning, getting' rid of some 'ighly questionable colours in the pantry 'allway."

"I was escaping. From the shooting thing. You try escaping in a speedo and fluoro paint."

"Quite taxing, h'I'm sure."

"Shot at, Parker."

"There, there." Parker patted his arm, in the one move most designed to rile him further. "You 'ad a big night."

Penelope decided she'd allowed Parker enough amusement for now.

"Parker, are you all ready to go?"

"Bucket and spade packed, m'lady." If anything, the thought seemed to make him more mopey than ever. "And if h'I might add, there is definitely electronic surveillance about the place." He held up a small unit, piping a low volume beeping noise. "At least one of them micro-drones floatin' about."

"What kind of range are we talking?"

"Not far. They're meant for close-range work. Our friends must be within 'alf a kilometre or so."

"Which might well present them with a few decisions to make if you're heading south and we're heading north."

Gordon's eyebrows rose.

"Where's he going?"

"A little holiday," Penelope said, with enough vagueness to be irritating. "I don't want our watching friends to see FAB1 in flight, so I'm afraid it's the motorway until you feel you've lost the drone."

"Right you are, m'lady. You'd better take this." He handed her the surveillance detector.

"A holiday?"

"To the seaside." Parker made it sound like a death sentence.

"The beach? Does England even have beaches? Doesn't matter," Gordon added. "Any beach sounds good about now."

"H'I don't 'old with the seaside, as a general rule. Too much sand."

"Too much sand? Dude. No such thing."

"H'I suppose if you wear a costume like the one you 'ad on last night there's no room for sand in particular places."

"Goodbye, Parker," Penelope said, briskly. Dolefully he touched the floppy sunhat he was wearing for the occasion in salute and left.

"More bait, huh?"

Penelope glanced at his feet again. "More misdirection. You'll find a pair of boots in that cupboard over there."

He nodded, without comment, and walked over to the cupboard when previously he would have bounced, and all the ice squeezed in on her, hurting her, and it was both deeply unfair and exactly what she deserved.

This was all wrong. Everything she was meant to be feeling this morning was missing. She went to bed last night with the satisfaction of a job well done spiced with a low burr of annoyance and a deeper hum of spite. She expected to wake to something settled, something done with, perhaps even a sense of triumph over the vagaries of her heart.

Instead, this.

She was looking at what she'd wrought and finding the sight of ruins brought pain, without catharsis.

And, perhaps worst of all, she didn't know what to do about it.

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, the scourge of equivocators, the despiser of shilly-shallying, the epitome of once more unto the breach and to hell with your English dead – that self-same champion of decisive action this day was vacillating between wanting to see those ruins razed to the ground and the ground salted to ensure no life would remain there for a generation, or –

Or.

No. Impossible. How could she even contemplate the effort it would take to begin the long, slow process of rebuilding? What would be the point? It would be bound to collapse again, bound to betray the weight placed on it if she could ever bring herself to rely on it once more.

"Come on," she said, abruptly. "We'll take them out through to the reserve. Keep the hat on and your head down. I'm sure these drones have good facial recognition capacity, but they can't work with what they can't see."

"Right," Gordon said through gritted teeth, as he pulled on the second boot. He stood and stomped in them to settle them onto his feet, then came back to untie the rein, grasp it and a stirrup and swing lightly into the saddle. Nisa immediately turned towards the entrance and Gordon checked her movement, bringing her around in a tight turn as he waited for Penelope to mount her stallion. "After you, m'lady."

"Head down," she repeated, and mounted quickly, wanting to be in the open air where perhaps if she rode fast enough and went far enough she could breathe and think a little better.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 **Summary:**

Well, about time.

 **Notes:**

Next chapter's done, just needs to address the notes from the always sagacious Sol. And then an epilogue and dear lord, this one's done. Curse you pneumonia for your delaying tactics.

 **Chapter Text**

She led him out to the park that formed the bulk of the Creighton-Ward estate. Rumours of design by Capability Brown turned out to be precisely that, but whoever did establish the layout of it, they'd obviously learned from the master. It was an artful landscape that welcomed them, a long meadow interspersed with small stands of old oaks and beech that managed to seem spontaneous even as they marshalled the eye towards the ornamental lake at the end of it. It meant a perfectly lovely space for a canter, and the horses knew it as well as she did.

Beyond the lake stood a fence that separated the manor grounds from Barton Hills National Nature Reserve, and that was her goal today. In its thick forest the micro-drone would struggle to track them, and that brought the possibility of the need for whoever was spying on them to actually physically follow them into tits trails. Which also brought the possibility of a confrontation and frankly, the thought of that brought a quick acknowledgement that a violent showdown with evil henchmen was exactly what she needed right now.

As well-behaved as the horses were, she knew she'd been neglecting them, and they were both pulled sideways to check their desire for an immediate gallop into the wide open space before them. A freshening breeze called them on. Gordon, looking ridiculous in duster and wig, nonetheless seemed brighter for being out in the sunshine and sitting comfortably atop a horse attempting to impersonate a circus pony in the way she was arching her neck and picking up her hooves, almost springing on the turf. Penelope kept Ashgar in hand until they'd reached the first stand of trees, letting both horses warm up before the run.

The three hundred year old beeches and oaks were covered in the soft green of spring.

New growth. New hope.

Damn, she thought. Bloody spring can be so ridiculously metaphorical.

In a sudden burst of irritation, whether at Gordon or at the situation or even at herself she wasn't sure, she released the tight hold she had on the reins and urged Ashgar into a canter. Deliberately she didn't look behind her to check on how well or if Gordon coped until she had gone several hundred metres over the meadow.

Then she turned to look and - this.

This was it.

The expression on Gordon's face of utter child-like delight. All the groomed young men she knew, so sure of themselves in their cynical ambition, and yet it was Gordon's _joi de vivre_ that called to a wild gladness in her own heart, something that had survived a dutiful childhood, a diligent adolescence and a disciplined adulthood. She saw his joy and it sparked her own, and no one else did that for her.

He was, she also had to admit, coping rather well with the canter, although Nisa had such a smooth gait that it wasn't surprising. And Gordon, after all, was supremely fit and flexible. The thigh muscles so clearly defined in the riding breeches were gripping the mare's sides as securely as if he rode each day, and as she slowed down and he drew alongside her where the path narrowed again into the forest, his mouth was wide in an easy smile.

"This is great. I wish we could have horses on the island," he said.

"Mm. Not really the terrain for it."

"Yeah." He twisted back in the saddle to look at how far they'd come, then faced her again. "Maybe Brains could crossbreed horses and monkeys in his mad scientist's lair."

"Or you could just saddle up mountain goats."

"Now you're thinking." He drew in a deep breath, gathered the reins and grinned at her again.

His gift for happiness caught her heart. Every time.

She took the surveillance detector unit out of her pocket and discreetly checked the area behind them.

"I suspect we've outpaced the drone." Micro-drones were almost impossible to see in flight, so the electronic checking was necessary.

They rode more sedately through the forest, following well and ill-defined paths through to where the row of small hills, little more than ambitious bumps, flanked a grassy pass. Penelope brought her horse to a halt with a word, and then dismounted, leaving the rein trailing. Her horses were well-trained and well-behaved, no tying up necessary.

"Fancy a climb?"

Gordon looked up at the rounded hill before him.

"Sure." And as quickly as it had come, the happiness was banked again, beaten down into dutiful waiting.

Is this strategy? Performative penance? Does he think he's giving me what I want? Penelope wondered. Does he think I need misery in order to forgive?

Last night, and their meeting, and words wielded like a flaying knife came clear into her mind.

Why wouldn't he think that?

"Come on, Gordon. I'll race you."

That earned a crooked eyebrow. "Really? I think even you would – hey!"

Penelope hadn't waited. She began running up the hill's smooth sides, as Gordon cried out in frustration and dismounted behind her.

"Cheating! So cheating!"

She had no breath for a response or time to look back, powering her way toward the summit, resorting to grabbing at grass as it grew steeper before it rounded finally at the top under an old, tall oak.

As could be expected, the bright sunshine of first light was now moderated by a small army of individual clouds skating along on the breeze that could safely be termed wind. From up here on top of the hill it meant that the view between them was a constantly shifting parade of light and dark.

Gordon scrambled to stand beside her. She glanced at him as his eyes scanned the view, so different to the tropical beauty of Tracy Island. A patchwork landscape in one direction, thick green canopy in the other, and a bite to the air that never intruded in his home. He looked out at it briefly, saying nothing, then dropped to sit at the foot of the tree. For a moment they stayed like that, him below, she above, until at last he cleared his throat.

"So what now?"

She came back to sit against the tree, beside him. It was the kind of peace that is to be found amongst rubble.

"I'm still detecting electronic surveillance."

"Hmm?" Gordon shifted slightly. "What kind?"

"Oh, no doubt some of those miniature drones. Wasp size things."

"So – we wait here until they come and check us out?"

Penelope gave the smallest of shrugs. "I rather hope so. With any sort of luck, half will follow Parker, half will follow us. I want them looking a long way away from where their surveillance could actually be doing them any good."

"And what do we do when they come?"

"Gordon. This is a national reserve. They're perfectly welcome to enjoy some of our lovely English countryside."

A little huff of air beside her.

They sat without talking. The only sound was the occasional tearing of grass by the horses as they grazed, fifty feet below them. It wasn't a particularly tense silence. Last night's rain and this morning's dew had burned off to leave the ground only slightly damp, and there was a sense of comfortable isolation on top of the hill, so that time and hostilities felt suspended without any pressing need for resolution.

They, and the hill, simply were.

Long moments passed, drifting down into something more calm and quiet than she could have imagined yesterday. They watched together as a flock of starlings wheeled and broke and combined once more into a wave on the wing.

"Murmuration." She nodded towards them. "It's called a murmuration of starlings."

"Cute. Mom used to call us a terror of Tracys. When we were kids, you know, running around the place." Another huff of air, the ghost of his laugh. "I think she included Dad in that."

"I can imagine."

Well, not really. Her own childhood had been as carefully curated as a museum exhibit, with safety ropes and security guards and an expectation of quiet and civility. The mayhem of the Tracy boys en-masse was something outside of her experience, and the thought of it horrified and fascinated her in equal measure.

The time of grace passed. She was waiting, she realised, and the insistence of it rose within her.

Perhaps he sensed it.

"Pen?"

He looked sideways at her, through his eyelashes, and the effect was ridiculously endearing. Is that deliberate? she wondered. Misery, compliance, charm. She used to think she could read him, she could plumb his depths and chart his course. But this morning he was obscure to her, and it stirred another burst of irritation when she was hoping for composure.

"I think I have to talk to you."

"Oh? Have to?" It was acidic, and it burned.

"Yeah. Have to. I got four brothers, one sister, one grandma, a genius and probably a robot ready to kick my ass if I don't."

She couldn't help it.

"Not to mention Parker."

"Parker! Pen, I swear, that guy…"

She lifted her chin, facing out to the west where a soft blue smudged the horizon. "Gave you the rounds of the kitchen, did he?"

Even though she wasn't looking at him, she heard him blink.

"I – don't know what that means? But if it means a hard time, yeah. Yeah, he did, and he was right to, and I'm sorry, Pen, truly."

Her breath caught a little, and she cursed herself, because this was a moment for complete control.

"Are going to tell me why you were so awful to me in Edinburgh?"

A mistake. She knew the second the words left her. As a manoeuvre in their tentative détente it lacked all subtlety. It told him far more than he'd shown her. He now knew that it had hurt, and that he had that power over her.

She'd just handed him a sword to skewer her with, if he wished to wield it.

There was no response from Gordon, and that surprised her. She dared a glance and saw he was shaking his head slightly, frowning as he looked out at their shared horizon.  
She waited. And as each second passed, she realised a terrible truth; she wanted him to do this well. She wanted that very badly indeed.

And it seemed as though he was about to fail her once more.

But then she looked again, and she saw what she'd missed in her first, furtive glance; his mouth was bunched upwards not in consideration, not in annoyance, but in an effort to steady lips that threatened to tremble. He dropped his head, still shaking it. It took another minute, as long as any Penelope had ever known, before he spoke.

"I'm not – on Rona, I – "

The hand closest to her grasped a clump of grass and she thought he was going to tear it out. Instead his fingers closed around it, gripping it as if to keep him anchored there.

"I killed people. Two of them. And I mean, things were kinda full on. Kinda desperate. I had to stop them. And I would have done anything to keep them from going up top, from getting to Virgil. So I did, I did what I was trained to do and it was what I needed to do. If I hadn't done that, hadn't killed them, the consequences would have been so bad, not just for Virgil but big picture, everyone. I don't need to justify it. It's all about as rationalised and argued as I can make it. And Scott, and Virgil, hell, even Grandma, though she doesn't know all of what – she doesn't know the half of it."

It was a long speech for Gordon. People thought he talked a lot, but mostly it was hit and run conversation. Outside of core IR business it was one liners and sassy comebacks. Nonsense, filling the airwaves. But this? This had all the steady deliberation of a condemned man mounting the gallows.

Another silence, and somehow even as a terrible sadness began to consume her one part of her brain noted just how much he left out.

She had to clear her tight throat to speak.

"Gordon. You were cleared of wrong doing. The commission recognised, as does any fair minded person, that you acted in self-defence. It was an awful thing to go through. I can't imagine how hard that's been for you. But you said yourself, it's – "

Abruptly he stood up, pulling the ridiculous wig from his head.

"Yeah, this is stupid. I know. I know. Stupid."

She was beside him at once, both standing for the truth because it was coming at them like an enemy.

"Not stupid. It was traumatising."

He grinned at that.

And she almost took a step back.

Never, she had never seen that look on her Gordon. His lips pulled back as if they wanted to snarl; his eyes so dark their blueness was lost in black. One hand reached towards him, involuntarily, and she saw him pull away from her. It might have been petulance, it might have been disgust at her touch, but with the sudden insight that both blessed and haunted her, Penelope recognised something else completely.

It was the move of a leper, saving another from the consequence of their own compassion.

Her voice, always so sure, so controlled, shook slightly.

"Gordon, of course it was. How could anyone not be traumatised? You were both alone against a superior force of numbers, and Virgil's life was at stake. Not to mention the fate of Europe, possibly the world. You did what you had to do, and I'm pro –"

"Don't."

Quick and hard, a verbal slap.

So still, so tense, he who was never either, and she understood something else.

She realised that he wasn't the one who needed to do this well.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to look away from the stranger at her side, out at the peaceful morning that still sparkled where the sun discovered hidden dew. She clasped her hands together, an old trick learned from her first governess, years and many trials ago. Hands corralled were hands that could not betray their owner's distress.

"I don't understand."

"No."

"I want to."

No response to that, and she knew she was failing the biggest test of her life. Here, on a beautiful morning in spring, on her favourite hill, with the man she - with someone who deserved far better.

"Are you – are you seeing someone? A professional, I mean. I know a very good therapist in Harley Street, clichéd I know, but my father swore by him."

Another long pause, and the voice that finally came matched the grin.

"Why would I? Everyone's so proud."

The way he said proud was the way he might say rancid, or infested, or rotten.

"I don't understand," she said again, helplessly.

And suddenly she did understand something quite shocking.

So accomplished, so extensive an education. So many meetings where her diplomacy had saved the day, so many social affairs tactfully navigated and conquered. So many school friends counselled or combated, so many heads of government charmed. At ease with criminals and courtiers, with bankers and brigadiers. Through it all, such assuredness, the kind of self-belief that hundreds of years of power bestowed on the fortunate children of a society's overlords.

And now, the realisation that all of it was so very, very narrow.

This? This was a pain so deep it was destroying a kind and courageous man, and nothing in her experience had exposed her to anything like it.

Finally, something beyond stillness and silence; a soft sound that might almost be an embryonic laugh.

"Virgil really will kick my butt." At last, he sent her a sideways glance. "We've thrashed this out. Beaten the thing to death. On a beach."

She swallowed hard, and for once, kept quiet.

"But I guess… I'm still figuring things out. It was more than just the - what I did."

The starlings swerved towards them, following insects in the air invisible to the humans. She heard the fluttering of their wings and thought of a hundred tiny heartbeats working as one, as her own thudded in her hollow chest.

"In Edinburgh, I hated myself so much I didn't want to – I didn't want – not you. Pen, not you."

She never knew that incoherency could bring with it such a blinding light of comprehension.

"Gordon," she said, so softly, and at the sound he made a noise as if something inside him had just torn away.

"I saw a part of myself that really scared the hell out of me. Everything I thought about who I was just got kinda swept away. It was all – raw, I guess, and everything seemed so bad, and there you were, so perfect, I thought I was in heaven because you were there." He looked at her then, his eyes brown again but sad in a way that raked her heart so sharply she had to bite her lips to stop the sound of its hurt escaping.

Her hands unclasped of their own accord and reached for Gordon's, and he grasped it as he grabbed a lifeline, sure and strong, but his shaking voice betrayed that strength.

"I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot. I never meant to hurt you, I meant to…"

Of course he wouldn't. She knew that as fundamentally as she'd ever known anything in her life. Later she could wonder at how she had forgotten who he was, in her bewildered hurt, in her battered pride.

What did he need, now? What could she give him?

"Rescue me? From your perfidious self?"

"Or maybe I was just protecting myself," he said, a gloomy kind of rawness in his voice. "Maybe I figured the minute you saw that side of me you'd be gone and it'd kill me. I mean, I could say it was for you, but maybe I pushed you away because I couldn't push myself away."

There was insight here, unpolished in its expression but profound in its honesty.

"But Pen, I swear, I will never do that to you again."

"As if I would ever let you."

A second after she said the words, she realised their ambiguity, brought home to her by the way he closed his eyes at perceived defeat. She blundered on.

"No. What I meant was – Gordon, if we… Gordon, you and I, if we try for something, then we have to have very strict ground rules."

His head came up at that, his face still. Watching.

"We have to be honest. I don't need protecting from you. If you think for one moment that I don't have my own…" She paused, wondering what she could say here. How much she should say. "I'm not perfect."

He made a small, helpless gesture.

"Yeah, you kinda are. To me."

She shook her head. Not impatient. Careful.

"I have an awful mean streak. I do. And something else." Now it was she who could not look at him, who turned for succour to the horizon's blurred mauves and blues for refuge.

"I don't talk about my job, because that's the whole point of it, it's not the kind of thing one can ever just chat about. But – I have made decisions and done things that would horrify every – every single person I know. Except Parker." She shook her head slightly. "He's there in the mire with me. And it makes all the difference, because I really don't know how I would have survived without having that friend beside me in the very worst places."

Now he was slowly shaking his head, but he was listening.

"Gordon, I don't need worship. No one can sustain that. I need someone who can look at the very worst in me and not turn away." Penelope drew in a breath that betrayed itself with the shakiness of it. "Don't you want that too?"

His head down again, but the grip on her hand shifted a little, as one thumb began to stroke up to the tender flesh and nerves at her wrist. At last, he shivered.

Wherever his thoughts had taken him, the water was obviously cold and dark.

"I don't know. I don't think I'm that brave."

This was surer ground.

"If you're not brave enough, then I don't know who on earth is." She shrugged. "Darling, every time anyone embarks on this kind of nonsense they need all the courage they can get. We're nothing special."

He looked at her then, quizzical, and the gentle sun caught his hair and eyes and made something overwhelming of both.

"Romance is dead, huh?"

There was no point in pretending any longer.

"Romance is wonderful. But if we're brave enough – we might have something more."

He closed his eyes again, and that was a shame, because Penelope realised she could stay here lost in his eyes, forever, and call it a life well-spent.

Another silence, and this was so unlike him that she understood that seeing this Gordon, this still and sombre and quiet Gordon, was sharing a truth and a vulnerability beyond words, beyond touches. The leaves above their heads, new and pale, rustled as a breeze lifted them, lifted a stray hair into her face. She didn't move to restrain it.

"So I guess I have to slay you a dragon or something. Several dragons."

She couldn't help it. She burst out laughing, a fragile sound, but it galvanised the tormented man beside her. Hope, like instant fireworks in the dark amber of his eyes. It really was quite astonishing, how quickly life could come back to those depths, how purely resilient he was. How much he wanted this.

"I think perhaps the dragons could stay unmolested for a day or two. If we – "

The detector in her pocket gave a subtle buzz against her thigh. She pulled it out.

"Ah. I'm afraid we have those tiresome drones as company again."

But Gordon had dropped her hand (she felt the loss of his warmth at once) and taken a step away from her, towards the edge of the hill.

"Looks like your decoy plan worked."

She followed where he pointed and saw for herself as a sleek, grey car edged through the narrow path beneath the trees and came out into the clearer space below.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Summary:

There is one very brief epilogue to come - one last little thing I have to tie off from Edge.

Chapter Text

The car was not particularly menacing. Quite an ordinary looking thing, really. And yet, as it nosed its way through the trees and onto the path between the small hills, there was an undeniable air of menace in its approach.

"Should we be worried?"

He didn't sound it, and a glance back towards him showed a definite spark of something in his eyes.

"Of course not. They have every right to be enjoying this lovely summer's day in this lovely national park."

"Cool. Just checking."

Below them, three of the car's doors opened and three men climbed out. Two wore bulky overcoats. The one Penelope kept her eyes on was in a light grey business suit, the sharpness of his lapels matched with the gaze he sent upwards towards her.

"Huh," said Gordon, softly. "That's the guy who shot at me last night."

"Really." It wasn't a question, because she had known the likely culprit the moment Gordon told her about it. She stood on tiptoes and called, "Colonel Kryek! Enjoying the day, I hope?"

The colonel didn't bother replying. He and his men simply began climbing up towards them, until they were within easy speaking distance, when he stopped and turned around in an act of admiring the view. Everything about this man was calculated for effect, she knew, and so she did not allow his studied ease to distract her for a second. After seeming to survey the surrounding countryside for a length of time that became almost rude, Colonel Kryek faced them again and came closer, until she found herself resisting the temptation just to reach out and push.

"Well. Lady Penelope." He sent one quick, ugly look towards Gordon and she almost shifted in front of him in an instinctive act of protection. Foolish, she knew, and one Gordon himself wouldn't allow for a second. "Perhaps you would care to explain this?"

He gestured at Gordon.

"Explain what, Colonel? I'm afraid I'm at a loss."

"The wig? The woman's jacket?"

"Hope you're not kink-shaming there, buddy," said Gordon, breezily.

The colonels' gaze transferred to Gordon, and with it a level of contempt that was visceral.

"This is obviously not Maria Kelenik. Just as obviously, you hoped I would mistake your trained monkey for her."

"Penelope, did you hear? He thinks I'm trained!" Pure delight in his voice, and it gave her a jolt of courage.

"Yes, we're very proud of your progress."

A slow, very frightening smile began to spread on the colonel's face.

"So pleasant, the English. Pleasantries. This is what you call it."

"I hope so." Penelope sent her most winning smile his way. "I do so dislike anything unpleasant, don't you? And on such a beautiful day."

The smile remained.

"Tell me where Maria Kelenik is, please, Lady Penelope."

"Goodness. I couldn't really say." She pursed her lips in thought. "I believe I last saw her at about ten o'clock last night. Yes, that would be it. Right when my trained monkey here started doing his tricks. You really are a very silly boy," she added to Gordon, who hung his head in comical shame. "But Colonel, I am sure your men who were looking after Madame Kelenik would never take their eyes off her, no matter how ridiculous this one got. Why don't you ask them?"

Nothing more than an almost flat line on the colonel's face now, was that smile. Penelope was close enough to see his eyes, and they were the light blue of ice, of fadedness, of nothing. Her act was all guilelessness and charm, but her briefing and her belly were both telling her just how very dangerous this man was.

"You know where Kelenik is. You have been an active participant in her disappearance. You will tell me now where she is, please."

"I simply don't have a clue. I'm so sorry, Colonel. I can't help you." She sensed Gordon shifting away from her. A less-seasoned agent might think him abandoning her to the colonel's wrath, but she knew immediately that he was readying for action and lessening the target they made.

Colonel Kryek didn't cock his head in a posture of consideration. He didn't sigh, or shrug. After a brief pause, he simply nodded, and said to the man at his right, almost conversationally, "Kill the horses."

Penelope gasped.

"How dare you threaten me!"

"I am not threatening anyone," the colonel said. "I am telling my men to shoot your horses." Another nod, and the man detached himself from their group and headed back down the hill.

"No! Wait!" She allowed the desperation to come through into her voice. "You really don't think that committing such an appalling act would be without consequences? Do you know who my father is? Diplomatic immunity will count for nothing in the face of such an outrage."

"I know who your father is. I know who, and exactly what, you are." The second man was almost to the place where Ashgar and Nisa cropped the grass patiently. As she watched, both horses raised their heads and watched the man approaching them, ears forward, alert and on the point of alarm. From here she could clearly see the gun in his hand. "I know you arranged for Maria Kelenik to go somewhere we could not find her and keep her safe. So now the choice is simple. Protect her, protect the horses."

"I – no! No, wait, please. I – " She looked about her, saw Gordon watching her closely, took a second to wonder how he would react, and then she plunged on. "She came to me, she – please, don't shoot."

The other man beside the colonel called down to the one by the horses. The man below stopped his advance, waiting.

"Colonel, you must understand. She told me she – she has found true love." She clasped her hands together in appeal. "How could I possibly refuse to help?"

"Love?"

"What?" An outraged squawk from Gordon.

"Yes, she met him at a – well, it doesn't matter where she met, but they can't be together, can they, how could they, it simply wasn't possible. So she asked me to help her to find a way. And of course I said yes. I would have been a beast not to."

"Wait, you mean – you got me into that get-up last night, had me make a complete fool of myself, and then this heap of crap you had me wearing today, and all for some stupid woman's mid-life crisis?"

"Oh, Gordon, darling, if you could have heard how much she loves him!"

"Oh my god." Gordon at his most dramatic, arms flung wide. "Are you kidding me? I went through all that – I got shot at, Penelope, I got damn near shot off that beam – just because you have some stupid schoolgirl notion about hearts and moons and true love? God!"

"Oh but really, she loves him so much. I'm sure you'd feel differently if you only saw how she looks when she talks about him. And this way they can be together! Don't you find it all perfectly thrilling?"

"Thrilling? Oh, yeah, wow, can't tell you how thrilled I am. Colonel, you hearing this?"

"Yes." Terse. Contemptuous. He continued to stare at Penelope, who now began to cry.

"Gordon, please, don't be horrible."

"Horrible? Horrible is that stupid wig and that stupid stunt you had me pull. In front of everybody."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I really am."

The colonel put up his hand.

"Thank you. If you would tell me where Maria Kelenik is I can leave the two of you to discuss this further alone."

"Oh." Sniffing, looking utterly woebegone, Penelope blinked long wet lashes at him. "I told her to take my _pied a terre_. It's – "

"We know the address." The colonel lifted a phone from his pocket, spoke into it briefly, and then replaced it. He sent an inscrutable look at first her, and then the fuming figure of Gordon, who was now standing several feet away with arms folded, glowering. "Perhaps I was mistaken about you, Lady Penelope." He dipped his head slightly, the sneer confined to his offsider who was openly mocking them both. "Goodbye. In future, try to avoid involving yourself in things about which you know nothing."

"You won't – Colonel, you won't hurt her?"

Now his lip did tremble from the effort of not curling up in disgust.

"We will take Madame Kelenik back to Bereznik. She will be reunited with her friends. It is only being in your country that has made her so foolish." He turned and went back down the hill, surefooted, only needing the slightest of gestures for both men to follow him back to the car.

Gordon remained staring frostily out at the landscape as the car below completed a careful turn and disappeared back down the path under the trees; his arms folded, every line of his body betraying his fury. For one little moment of almost dizzying unbalance she wondered if she really had miscalculated.

He turned his scowl back towards her, and the unease grew.

The sound of the car faded, leaving only the soft susurration of leaves above, the song of the starlings still hunting through the sky.

His mouth, his eyes, the way his arms folded tightly to stop their violence – everything about him told her she'd gone too far.

Then he spoke.

"Whew. Think it worked?"

Of course he would throw himself wholeheartedly into the role. And of course he would know to keep going until the coast was truly clear. She gave a little half laugh that had something more desperate in it and discreetly pulled her detector from her pocket, her own body language still conveying supplication to anyone watching.

"Give me one moment. Just checking and – well, that seems quite acceptable. No drones, and the car has definitely left the area."

Gordon's stiff posture immediately left him, and he gave her a thoroughly devilish grin followed by a whistle.

"What an asshole. And nice waterworks, Lady P."

"Not too shabby on the outraged monkey bit yourself."

"True love? I don't think he's a fan of yours anymore."

"Couldn't be better," she said briskly, then swapped one device for another and opened her compact. "Lady Penelope calling Thunderbird 5."

John appeared. How is it, she wondered, that one brother can be so transparent and the other so impenetrable? There was nothing on John's face to reflect his feelings about their earlier conversation, merely a slight eyebrow raise and an easy, "Lady Penelope? What can I do for you?"

Gordon leaned over to get in view.

"Hey, John. How's the weather up there?"

"There's no weather in – " Ah. Perhaps not quote so impenetrable. The sigh conveyed plenty. "Gordon. How are you? And – what are you wearing?"

"This old thing?" Gordon gestured to himself with something close to pride. "Shoulda seen me with the wig."

It was still clasped in one hand, and he held it up proudly like a scalp taken in battle.

John gave the barest of head shakes.

"I – don't want to know. What can I do for you, Penelope?"

"John, I was rather hoping you could arrange to have security at my London address, ready to make an arrest in an unfortunate diplomatic incident. I have every reason to believe that several men from a certain European nation are going to attempt forced entry there in the next hour or so."

"Done." John looked first at her, and then back to his brother. "You look pleased with yourselves."

"Do we?" She tried for nonchalance, but she knew her own eyes held the same kind of sparkle that lit Gordon's, and she could feel how her own energy was humming in time with his. "It's just such a lovely morning, I suppose."

"We've actually had more than two minutes of sun. In England! It's the apocalypse," Gordon said.

"It's something." John did dry better than anyone she knew. "If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it. Gordon, Scott expects you back by 1500."

"I know. I'll be there."

"Okay. Well, have fun. Five out."

He was gone, and it was just the two of them, and Penelope waited for the mood to decide where it would settle. The revelations and honesty of the conversation before, or the bright irreverence of danger met and averted. It took more courage than she expected to turn and face him squarely, to lift her eyes to his.

A challenge there, a hint of amusement, and something held back.

"Will we?" His tone was light and even. "Have fun?"

"I suspect so."

"Hmm." The slightest head tilt. "I think so, too. But there's something I gotta ask you, first."

"Oh?" Her stupid heart had begun to pound in a way that the threat from Colonel Kryek had never engendered.

He looked at her, directly, and the pause was too long to be comfortable. She had the intense sensation of being weighed and measured, and from anyone else she knew it would invoke fury. Instead, she found she could scarcely breathe as she waited.

"Did you… you knew how much I admired Aelfrida Kinniburgh. You never miss a thing. So did you invite her deliberately to make me look like that last night in front of her?"

Sideswiped. He'll do that to you, she told herself. Every time. He'll knock you off your feet just as you think you have everything under control.

She didn't blush, because she hadn't blushed since she was 14, but she felt the blood drain from her face and knew how very white she would look Even so, she lifted her chin.

"Yes." No change in his expression – he already knew – and it pulled complete honesty from her. "That's who I am. That's how cruel I can be."

He nodded, slowly, eyes never leaving her face, and she waited for some kind of verdict when it had been she who once held the power of judgement and condemnation, she who was going to punish and discard.

What a lie that had been.

"I'd be a fool to love you." The words were steady, and he meant them, and they hurt. But then, the nod became a head shake, and he sighed. "Penelope Creighton-Ward, I will always be the biggest fool on the planet."

For a moment, she stared at him, uncomprehending. Then the meaning of his words came to her in a rush. It was the only excuse for her babble.

"Oh, darling, me too. Such a complete and utter fool."

They both reached out at the same time, finding each other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11** **: Epilogue**

 **Summary:**

At last... thanks for coming along for the crazy ride. And thanks, as ever, to the Sol of all Sols, Soleil_Lumiere.

 **Notes:**

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

 **Chapter Text**

"You should just see the amazing footage I've got, Pen!"

Autumn. Late autumn in fact, but today the weather looked back to a bright summer rather than the looming chill of winter, and Penelope had abandoned her coat in FAB1. The trees she'd thought dead on her last visit here were now glorious with colour only just beginning to brown.

"Confession, my love: I have."

"What?" He looked stricken, then furious. "Alan! I'll kill him."

"Oh, no need for murder, darling. He was just so excited for you, and when he sent the link I was so excited too that I didn't think to wait." She pulled him closer. "My fault. It was wonderful. Utterly enchanting. Aelfrida must be over the moon."

"The moon? She's in orbit past Neptune at this stage." The flash of annoyance was gone; she could feel it, so tight against her was he. Their times together were so rare, a day or night here, hours after a rescue there, that when they met it was though their bodies' need for closeness was as fundamental as food or drink or air. So his arm found its way around her waist and her hip tucked in against his thigh as simply and necessarily as a smile at meeting, and now she felt the brief tightening of annoyance and loosening of acceptance through her own skin. "She thinks she's found three new species, and she's definitely confirmed the survival of three others. How cool is that?"

She didn't say anything. He was looking at her, and that was all they needed most times to communicate their thoughts. He grinned in response to what he saw in her eyes.

"Yeah," he said, softly. "That cool."

And when he was looking at her like that, well, words really were the most useless waste of breath when it could be lost in so much better ways.

If anyone had told her a year ago that kissing would become her favourite hobby, she would have scoffed. But then, kissing was a completely inadequate way to describe whatever it was she and Gordon did when their lips met. She still didn't know how it was possible to find herself more essentially than she'd ever known before and to completely disappear into someone else with the one action.

It was a conundrum she was happy to explore for the rest of eternity, if possible.

In lieu of eternity, she supposed it was decent of Parker to wait at least a minute before giving a cough that was no doubt meant to be discreet but in actuality had all the élan of a rhinoceros with catarrh. It was just a little hard to be gracious about it when she hadn't been in the same hemisphere as Gordon in over a month.

The soft groan in her mouth from Gordon told her he felt the same way.

"I'll just go and knock 'im up, shall I, m'lady?"

They were here for a purpose, after all, and so she reluctantly disengaged from Gordon enough that she could drop her head to his chest and try to find the suitable level of asperity even as her backbone seemed to melt towards his.

"Do that, Parker."

"Righto." The sound of his boots on cobbled stones grew more distant, and she allowed herself to sigh into Gordon's shirt.

"Ahh, my girl." Gordon's voice was quiet but it reverberated through his chest so that his entire being seemed to be speaking to her. "We've got an hour after this. No way Scott will be ready to leave London before 1400 hours."

"But by the time we finish here, and get back to Buckinghamshire, and get rid of Parker – bless him, but you know what he's like – and …"

"Shh." Even the rumble sounded amused. "Are you telling me that Kent doesn't have any No Tell Motels?"

She pulled back to look at him.

"Are you suggesting a – "

His grin widened into something delightfully devilish.

"Mister and Missus Smith. Room for one hour? No problem."

"Smith?" Her own grin matched his. "I'm sure we can do better."

One eyebrow rose.

"What's your suggestion?"

"Well, my mother's maiden name was Roxburgh. I'm sure she would approve of it being used in such a noble cause."

Gordon laughed.

"Saucy minx, was she?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

"Ooh. This sounds like the sort of family album evening I can get behind. Tell me more."

"The fact that you are mentally salivating over my mother at this point is more than vaguely disturbing."

"H'I've found 'im!" Parker called rather louder than required, no doubt in order to spare them all an inopportune embarrassment. "Come along Spider, me old mucker."

She turned away from Gordon, regretting the loss of his warmth immediately, to see Parker and his noisome friend making their way towards her. The old man seemed a little more stooped than when she saw him last, in those desperate days of March that seemed a long time ago in the brightness of an October day but wrapped her still in their chill at night.

Spider nodded towards her, then looked Gordon up and down with the same air of general distaste he would give a piece of long dead roadkill.

"Oo's this?"

Gordon, brave lad, stepped forward, his hand out.

"I'm Gordon Tracey. Good to meet you."

A glacial look was the only reward for that opening, but it did not deter a man capable of death-defying feats. Penelope knew for a fact that Gordon had once danced with the President of the United States, and had insisted on dipping that august personage repeatedly. The secret service had a collective hernia on the spot.

"You met my brother last time. I'm the bratty kid he was looking for. Well, me and my other brother, Virgil. I guess I have you to thank for the fact we're not still dog-paddling in the North Sea."

Spider sniffed, but even he was not immune to the sheer force of Gordon's unwavering friendliness. He reached out and shook Gordon's hand once.

"You 'ad your brother in a right state."

"Was kind of that way myself by the end of it. I think between me and Scott and Virgil and John we took over an entire ward of Edinburgh Hospital."

"Christ." Spider turned his unlovely gaze to Parker. " 'Ow many of 'em are there?"

Gordon's grin widened. "There's Alan, too."

"Their grandma's the one you got to watch out for," Parker added _sotto voce_.

"All that business is why we're here," Penelope said with steady brightness. "We're very sorry for the loss of your plane."

Another sniff, and Spider's look grew even more sour, if that was possible, but he did give a slight shrug.

"Heard 'e did a good bit of work up there. Got those bastards."

"Yes, he did. But he lost your plane. Agnes, wasn't it?"

It was clear that Penelope's use of his lost plane's name was not appreciated. Whatever incipient welcome existed in Spider froze and died.

"That's right. And no, I ain't got another one hiding in the kharzi, if that's why you're 'ere."

"No, no, not at all. The fact is, Spider, we are here to try to make amends for your loss."

His permanent scowl deepened. Spider was clearly someone who never met a gift horse he didn't want to tie up and interrogate on sight.

"Already got the cheque."

"And h'I'm sure it was an 'andsome one," Parker said, an unsubtle addition to the conversation but one Penelope welcomed. After a moment, Spider gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement, but he was obviously still waiting for the other shoe, not to say foot, to drop, and probably on his neck.

"Oh dear. I did think he would be here by now," and Penelope turned to scan the horizon across the long empty field that lay between the stable house and the road almost a mile away.

Gordon opened his hands.

"You know him. Probably swooped down to help a kitten out of a tree or something."

"No, 'ere 'e comes." Parker pointed to where an endpoint was gradually resolving itself into a speck of black against the gentle blue of the sky. Before they could fully make out the shape of it they heard the far off but unmistakable sound of a Merlin engine, and Spider straightened, peering alongside them to the source of it, eyes alive with sudden interest.

"Finally." Gordon gave an unnecessary wave. "Yeah, so we thought that money wasn't really gonna cut it, and Scott felt bad about crash landing, even though he was shot up to hell, amazing he even survived really. Any of us, I guess. But Scott was most spectacular."

"Bein' shot and thrown off a cliff's not be sniffed at," said Parker, doing just that.

"So we had a bit of a look around and – well, you can see for yourself."

The speck had now resolved itself into the shape of a Spitfire, zooming in to land on the mown stretch of grass designated as a landing strip, one wheel touching momentarily ahead of the other and causing the plane to wobble and bump alarmingly before steadying into a taxi towards their small group.

"Lady to fly, bitch to land," said Spider absently as he keenly watched the plane approach. "Sushi, look at that."

"Thought you might appreciate 'er."

The plane slowed and stopped, the propellers gradually halting their revolutions, and the cockpit lifted up to reveal a hand that waved to them all. For some time.

"Alright, Scott, just come on out," Gordon muttered. "Stop showing off."

"Is he?" Penelope tilted her head. "He's not usually one for grandstanding."

"Have you _met_ my brother?"

The waving continued.

"Er – I think 'e might need a 'and."

Gordon blinked.

"He does? He can't get out on his own? It's just a plane."

The look Spider sent him would have deep fried a more sensitive soul, but Gordon's poor taste seemed to galvanise their host and he trotted to the Spitfire, hoisting himself up onto the wing with remarkable agility and then bending down to help Scott remove the harness and wriggle himself out.

"Thanks, Spider," Scott said, ungainly in a way he almost never was as he pulled his six foot plus body out of a space designed for less than that. "I do love flying these but they really cramp my style."

Spider's grunt was all he got as the little Cockney studied the instruments keenly.

"Mark VII," he finally muttered.

"Yes. I'm afraid that's the closest we could come to Agnes."

Spider nodded, only vaguely listening, his attention entirely captured by the plane beneath his hands.

"Right. Well then, that's all settled." Penelope was as bright and as final as only she could be when wanting to extract herself from any given social interaction. "We'll be on our way, Spider. Lovely to see you again. Parker, would you mind terribly if Gordon and I headed off for an hour or so to complete a little errand? Perhaps you could catch up without an audience."

It was framed as a request but lived as an order.

"Will do, m'lady." Parker's face told Penelope he knew exactly what she was up to, but she really didn't care.

Spider looked up at that, straight at Gordon.

"Where you plannin' on keeping 'er? Need somewhere dry. None o' that tarpaulin shite out in the open. Lady like this needs taking care of."

For a brief moment Penelope thought he was talking about her.

"What?" Gordon appeared similarly bemused. "It's not my plane, Spider. I was trying to tell you – she's yours. As a way of saying thank you for letting Scott crash your other one."  
Scott looked pained.

"Could you have phrased that in any way that didn't include me crashing?"

"Not and lived up to the Tracy Code."

Penelope saw Spider's face then, as the meaning of their visit suddenly became clear. The suspicion that had clouded his face since their arrival lifted, leaving a kind of wonderment behind, and suddenly she saw him as he might have looked as a young man, before tragedy marked him in sadness and grief.

Gordon saw it too, which is why he became very busy in heading over to FAB1.

"Come on, Lady Penelope, that errand of yours won't wait. We need to go before we get some kind of PDA between man and plane. I get enough of that on the island. Scooter, we'll pick you up in a bit."

"Wait, you'll what?"

Parker clapped Scott on the back.

"Never mind, lad. Come and let's enjoy 'elpin' Spider get acquainted with his new girlfriend."

Penelope gratefully hurried over to the driver's seat of FAB1 and slid into it. Gordon – her Gordon – was already there, bright and kind and good and wonderfully eager. That, at least, she could match.

"We really should have a sunset, so we could drive off into it."

"I think we'll manage without."

"Yeah, me too." Gordon gestured ahead. "And I've found the perfect place. Just down the road in Bridge. Two hundred a night, no questions asked, and it's got gnomes around each door."

"Gnomes? Really, Gordon!"

He grinned even wider.

"Welcome to my world." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and that reminds me – you're coming to Tracy island for Christmas, right? Can I borrow a dress? Like, an evening dress? I've got nothing to wear."

Gnomes. Aerial stripping. Borrowing gowns. It was absurd and ridiculous, just like him.

And as she looked across at him, watching his eyes grow warmer again as they met hers, she acknowledged, again, that it was everything she had ever wanted in her life.

"Gnomes I will tolerate. But darling, if you're going to start borrowing my clothes, we are going to _have_ to coordinate our wardrobes."

 **Notes:**

The discerning reader will note the reference to my one and only Christmas story, Keep it all the Year.


End file.
